8 December 2025

Grandma Gang is back in town, Lock your hearts and flip your frowns. Better watch out for the Grandma Gang- They look kind but they got fangs. Welcome back to the 34th weekly email of Battraw: Weekly! "Where we put the W in BattraW." -Elder Fox The grandmas in Peru here are tough as nails and strong as oxen. Their bare hands can sand a table down, and polish it too. They carry around heavy sacks all day, walking up and down mountains and manhandling bulls. Truly they are a force to be reckoned with. Other news: today is my one third of my mission completed. Cool stats: 6-pack mantained (but at what cost?) 💪 ~35 pounds lost 😔 4+ containers preworkout used 🤙 6 transfers 😎 6.5 companions 😶❓️ 2 mission presidents, 2 languages, 2 countries 🇵🇪 🇺🇸 48 Google Docs started, 6 finished 🤷‍♂️ 3 books started, 0 finished 👀 0 regrets 🫡 Countless priceless hours in the service of God 😤🔥 And I also contracted something that I'll call "the Ebola Virus" two days ago. Fortunately I took unknown medicine with a witchy brew concoction, got flamed by mission president's wife for drinking witchy brew, passed out twitching for 4 hours, woke up drenched in sweat completely healed. Overall, 7/10 experience. A big thank you to Tania the witchy brewer. Fortunately from this experience, I learned we are not supposed to take unknown medicine from witchy brewers named Tania. Next time I'll get it from Georgina the witchy brewer to be safe. This past week has been awesome! We work a lot, walk a lot, and alot money for ice cream. We had some sad news, some good news, and some very hope filled news. A very cool poem that I read recently, that is SO cool I'm going to hand type all of it- "The Race" by Delbert L. Groberg. "Quit! Give up! You're beaten!" They shout at me and plead. There's just too much against you now. This time you can't succeed! And as I start to hang my head In front of failure's face My downward fall is broken by The memory of a race. And hope refills my weakened will As I recall that scene For just the thought of that short race Rejuvinates my being. A children's race; young boys, young men How I remember well. Excitement, sure! But also fear. It wasn't hard to tell. They all lined up so full of hope Each thought to win that race. Or tie for first, or if not that At least take second place. And fathers watched from off the side, Each cheering for his son. And each boy hoped to show his dad That he would be the one. The whistle blew and off they went Young hearts and hopes afire. To win and be the hero there Was each young boy's desire. And one boy in particular Whose dad was in the crowd Was running near the lead and thought, My dad will be so proud! But as they speeded down the field Across a shallow dip. That little boy, who thought to win, Lost his step and slipped. Trying hard to catch himself His hands flew out to brace, And, mid the laughter of the crowd, He fell flat on his face. So down he fell, and with him hope. He couldn't win it now. Embarrassed, sad, he only wished To disappear somehow. But as he fell, his dad stood up And showed his anxious face That to the boy so clearly said; Get up and win the race! He quickly rose, no damage done. Behind a bit, that's all And ran with all his mind and might To make up for his fall. So anxiois to restore himself To catch up and win, His mind went faster than his legs; He slipped and fell again. He wished that he had quit before with only one disgrace I'm hopeless as a runner, now. I shouldn't try to race. But in the laughing crowd he searched And found his father's face, That steady look that said again, Get up and win the race. So up he jumped to try again Ten yards behind the last If I'm to gain those yards, he thought, I've got to move real fast. Exerting everything he had, He regained eight of ten But trying hard to catch the lead He slipped and fell again. Defeated! He lay there silently A tear dropped from his eye There's no sense running anymore. Three strikes; I'm out. Why try? The will to rise had disappeared. All hope had flone away. So far behind; so error prone- A loser all the way. I've lost, so what's the use, he thought. I'll live with my disgrace. But then he thought about his dad, whom soon he'd have to face. Get up, an echo sounded low, Get up and take your place. You were not meant for failure here, Get up and win the race. With borrowed will, get up, it said. You haven't lost at all. For winning is no more than this: To rise each time you fall. So up he rose to run once more And, with a new commit, He resolved that win or lose At least he wouldn't quit. So far behind the others now, The most he'd ever been, Still he gave it all he had; He ran as though to win. Three times he'd fallen, stumbling, Three times he rose again. Too far behind to hope to win, He still ran to the end. They cheered the winning runner As he crossed the line first place, Head high, and proud, and happy- No falling; no disgrace. But when the fallen youngster Crossed the line last place, The crowd gave him the greater cheer For finishing the race. And even though he came in last With head bowed low, unproud, You would have thought he won the race, To listen to the crowd. And to his dad he sadly said, I didn't do so well. To me, you won, the father said. You rose each time you fell. And now when things seem dark and hard And difficult to face, The memory of that little boy Helps me in my race. For all of life is like that race, With ups and downs and all, And all you have to do to win Is rise each time you fall. "Quit! Give up! You're beaten!" They still shout in my face. But another voice within me says Get up and win the race! -Elder BattraW, OUT