A little background about myself sometimes seeps through these posts. In some ways, it's because this is really a journal for me. I love dearly the people I write about, and I don't want to lose them. I also think that, while the mutual respect I have for many of these people lives, it's nice to spend time thinking about certain people and what has made them so great in my life.
Today I had an experience that really compelled me to write about my friend today. But first, a flashback.
When I was in third grade, my parents noticed that I often came home with papers that said, "Scott forgot his homework today!" My parents called me into their room and told me if I could go a week without getting a slip like that, they'd reward me. I didn't last a single day. That was a habit, or a choice in many ways, that never stopped plaguing me. I was one of those weird kids that wasn't dumb, just lazy. I would ace my tests and get C's in my classes because I didn't do the homework. I graduated high school with a 2.9 GPA (Not stellar, especially compared to my friends, family and future wife) but I got a 30 on the ACT that exceeded many of my peers. Even my 2.9 was a gift of having TONS of Fine Arts classes I got A's in and a great History teacher who gave me C's when I deserved F's (because otherwise I'd have failed to graduate at all).
Today (Thursday) I was in class, and my teacher (a PhD who I think the world of) asked if any of us had started on our homework for Monday. I was the only one in a class of about 14 to raise my hand. The teacher and several students made comments like, "Oh, well duh! No surprise there!" It's amazing, when you view yourself as one thing to have a public perception that you're not that thing, and to have it be relatively earned. It was nice.
The friend I'm writing about today always saw within me the capacity to create that reaction, and she treated me that way when I least deserved it.
This friend is someone who in school would have been my polar opposite academically. She graduated early as a 17 year old, worked her tail off, and was on her own teaching English when she was 21 years old. She is an aspiring writer, and has great talent at what she does. She always shoots for the moon and has great goals. One of my favorite quotes from this friend is, "My life might be normal, but that doesn't mean my thoughts are average." This friend was my journalism teacher in 11th grade, and let a knucklehead like me be the editor of her paper. She dreamed bigger though. She wanted to run an underground newspaper that talked about the things that students cared about, with pen names, and all sorts of code. She wanted to have my friend and I write and then pass it on to younger students as time went on, so it would always remain a 2-4 person job that was part of a select group of thinkers and writers. Cool, right?
This friend was my teacher only one half of one year, but became a friend who I could talk to about anything. She's only six years my senior, and relates well. She would talk about how she viewed people if they were characters in another time and another place. I think the observations she had about people were the kind of thing that inspired me to write this blog. People are absolutely fascinating. We read biographies, blogs, and articles about people. We watch plays and movies that tackle topics of interest. At the end of the day, all the most important things we ever do in society are about people. Sometimes that gets lost in numbers, causes, or other trivial outliers, but everything starts with people. This friend, who I'll call Jewels, understood how priceless and fascinating people are.
Jewels is also a person who has a good grasp on life. She has a really adorable little girl, and is a great mom. Being a mom has always been one of her passions, and she has a good husband she's devoted to. She's handled personal tragedy well, and really weathers tough storms. She has remarkable balance in her life. She's a good teacher because she not only teaches her subject well, she teaches about life through her subject. She's excited about getting kids reading. She loves helping kids write and really exploring things they've never been able to communicate before. She helps kids like me become men like I'm trying to become. It's teachers like her that made me want to be a good teacher. I have other teachers I owe a lot to, but this one is not only an inspiration; I also have the fortune of counting her as a friend.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Monday, May 20, 2013
You Know How This One Ends
In our society we tend to make a big deal out of "Last Words." When we lose someone, we worry a lot if we were on bad terms with them, had just had a fight, or if we forgot to say something simple like "Goodbye" or "I love you." I don't think this is without good reason. As you may have read in this very space, I lost my Grandma about a year ago. This was big for me because it was the closest relative I have known to pass away, and it was at a point in my life where lots of things were new to me. I'd been married less than six month. I'd stopped my full-time missionary work about a year before. I was living somewhere I'd never been before, and starting a new semester of school without being totally sure what I wanted to study. My first nephew was about to be born, and other things were in flux for me. I'll never forget the phone call I got late one night from my dad telling me that we probably had a couple of days, or a week at most with my Grandma. The next day, as she was driving back to Utah from Washington with my dad and Grandpa, she called everyone in her family individually, and we talked for just a couple of minutes. I told her I got straight A's, and that I was going to be a theater teacher, and I hoped to play games with her when she got back. Then I told her I loved her.
The next day my wife and I drove down to Utah from Idaho, where we were living. We hoped to see my Grandma that afternoon, as she had only driven half way home the previous day, and wasn't doing great. I was playing ticket to ride with my brothers and my wife when we got the news that she didn't make it. As sad as I was that I didn't get to do it in person, and as painful as those next few days were, I look back and have solace that in those last few days, I got to say good bye.
But, this isn't a post about my Grandma. This is a post about some other last words that are about to become famous, at least within the small scope of people who read what I write.
One of the coolest things about being a missionary is the fact that I met tons and tons of wonderful people; people who I'd never meet any other way. When my missionary companion and I knocked on this man's door, he let us in right away. His house always reeked of tobacco, but was a comfortable place, and very clean. There was a clock on the wall that never worked, and lawn ornaments on a well kept lawn. If it hadn't been for other missionaries who had taught him previously, I'm not sure we could have broken the communication barrier. Mr. Bernard was hard of hearing, and had bad vision. He wasn't able to read much from the books and pamphlets we left with him. Our visits to him seemed to me to be far less about teaching and far more about hearing stories from this man who had been born in the roaring 20's.
And did he ever have stories.
Mr. Bernard would tell us about his work as a stablehand for Kentucky Derby race horses. He met many professional athletes during his work and got close to them as they'd regularly come to make bets on the horses. He told stories about being in WWII, the air force and working with those from the UK in the Royal Air Force. He told some stories about his family. Not a ton of any of these, because, in all honesty, I only knew him a few weeks.
Sometimes, however, we did teach him. We were missionaries, and fairly focused ones. As nice as any sweet old man is, we had a duty to the work we'd signed up for. Mr. Bernard would tell us each week that he wanted to "get to church one of these Sundays." He also would always tell us when we left, "Don't take any wooden Nickles!" After one of our visits, he forgot to say this and so my missionary friend poked his head back in the door, and said, "Hey! Don't take any wooden nickles!" Mr. Bernard laughed his lungs out. From then on, it was a race to see who could say it first.
It was summertime, and the little church my missionary friend and I were assigned to had maybe sixty people who came regularly. We would always stand outside and shake people's hands as they came in the door. It was to our great surprise and delight one sunday when we saw a white truck that had always sat in Mr. Bernard's driveway come rolling slowly (and seriously, he couldn't have been going over 10 MPH) down the road. A rather lengthy line of cars was behind him. He rolled right up to the entrance to the parking lot, and kept going. Fortunately, my missionary friend was a track star who runs a sub five minute mile, so he sprinted in his suit over to the truck, and led him back to the church parking lot. He came in looking snappy, and smelling strongly of tobacco, but happy as could be.
He sat down in the back of the little church and talked to me all during the service. We talked a little as I would explain what was happening, and due to his poor hearing, our conversations were very loud whispers that everyone could hear. When the Sacrament (or communion as some call it), was being blessed, he leaned over to me and whispered, "Is this the Lord's supper?" I affirmed that it was. He sat an thought for moment and asked a question no one else I ever invited to church asked me. "Can I take the Lord's supper?" I explained that it was meant to represent the atonement, and our covenants we make at baptism, but he was welcome to partake if he so desired. As he did, he reached an ancient hand to take the bread and said, "This do in remembrance of me." The same happened for the water. He kept whispering questions through the whole meeting, and really made everyone smile at the presence of this curious and humble old man.
After church he shook many hands and was very friendly. He said he needed to go home, but would come again the next week. We invited him to a baptismal service for friends of ours that weekend, and he said he'd like to come. We were very excited that someone from such a small town, who was so old, and who had been baptist for so many years was willing to listen to a could of boys who combined were less than half his age.
We went to visit him on Tuesday, and had an experience a little different from the norm. We made small talk, and told a story or two, but then he asked us some questions about our church services. He told us he'd read some of our book, and that he wanted to know what we believed. We shared what we thought was important, and then he stopped us and said, "Boys, do you know what I keep having you come back here?"
We didn't, honestly. We hoped, but we didn't know.
He said with the kind of valor that makes your bones chilled, "I want to know when I stand before God that I'm doing what's right." We sat in silence for a few moments and then he thanked us for our time, prayed for us, and bade us good bye.
Well, you know how this one ends. That Saturday, we had a very beautiful baptismal service for some dear friends. Afterwards, we went to his house and knocked on the door to ask why he wasn't able to make it. To our immense sorrow, someone else answered the door. "Is Mr. Bernard here?"
"Mr. Bernard passed away this week. I'm sorry." Then the door closed.
I sometimes wonder if he knew what was coming. He was a smoker in his 80's. It's not like he was spry, and in the prime of life. Often he would tell us of what a labor it was just for him to get out of bed in the morning. Even when you hear those kinds of things though, you just don't think that one day you'll go to see him, and he'll just be gone though. One of the truths of mortality is that we all die. Some old. Some young. Some tragically. Some painfully. Some quickly. Some slowly. Somehow, someway, fair or not, we all die. I think it's most important that we remember that we may not all be able to say, "I've got just a couple days, I'm going to tell everyone good-bye." We may not all have an internal clock that tells us we're about to go. We sometimes won't get the chance to make things right with those who leave us. Life is tough, and unpredictable even at the best times.
I think what we can do, though, is do our best each day to do our very best. We can look to the future and say, "When I stand before God [who, or whatever that is to you], I want to know that I'm doing what's right."
Just like Mr. Bernard.
Oh, and don't take any wooden Nickles.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
This is why I Got Married
A wise person, several years ago, told me that you should marry someone who laughs the same way you do. That wisdom has been flawless and is one of the gems that makes my marriage strong. I have a wife who frequently tells me that nothing makes her happier than being able to get me to laugh really hard. Today, she did just that, and she did so in the face of unfavorable circumstances.
My wife is beautiful. She frequently gets compared to the actress Amy Adams who played Giselle in Disney's Enchanted. She responds to those people who make such a comparison by saying that it is not she who looks like Amy Adams, but Amy Adams who strikes a remarkable comparison to herself. She once used this favorable comparison while competing at Girl's State Competition to garner votes by singing a "Happy Voting Song." Not only is my wife beautiful, but she's clever.
Today, however, she was sad. She feels like she's losing one of her closest friends because that friend doesn't reach out to her or respond. She feels like she's forgettable and replaceable and just not someone that people look at and go, "Gosh! I want to be friends with her!" She feels like she's stuck in a weird place of life where friends her age either have children and are busy or they're single and can't relate, or their otherwise occupied, or in the case of our best friends, are four hours north.
So today, my wife was just sad.
We came home from church and decided she what she needed was to put on a warm sweater. So she did. Then she needed chocolate. I keep a kitkat hidden in the house for these very occasions. But, if you give a sad wife chocolate, she'll probably want something substantial to go with it. So she finished off the biscuits and gravy we had had for breakfast. As she was eating them and thinking deeply about her predicament she said, "Biscuits and Gravy. This is soul food. We should make this more often. Like for breakfast tomorrow."
Slowly, she started to laugh about other things. It was good to see. We played some Uno against each other and she decided now was the time to tap into her box of See's candy she'd gotten rather than partake of the KitKat. Each loss took another chocolate from the box. She didn't lose much, but after one in particular loss, she took a Scotchmollow from the box and looking at it said, "This is pusf."
I was confused, too.
She said it again. "Pusf." Really? Pusf?
Then with a big grin said, "Poor Unfortunate Soul Food."
The ability to quote Disney in a delightfully humorous way is what makes her such a remarkable woman. The ability to do so on a rough day makes her a champion. And the ability to do it while being so darn cute is what makes her my wife.
Pusf. Classic.
My wife is beautiful. She frequently gets compared to the actress Amy Adams who played Giselle in Disney's Enchanted. She responds to those people who make such a comparison by saying that it is not she who looks like Amy Adams, but Amy Adams who strikes a remarkable comparison to herself. She once used this favorable comparison while competing at Girl's State Competition to garner votes by singing a "Happy Voting Song." Not only is my wife beautiful, but she's clever.
Today, however, she was sad. She feels like she's losing one of her closest friends because that friend doesn't reach out to her or respond. She feels like she's forgettable and replaceable and just not someone that people look at and go, "Gosh! I want to be friends with her!" She feels like she's stuck in a weird place of life where friends her age either have children and are busy or they're single and can't relate, or their otherwise occupied, or in the case of our best friends, are four hours north.
So today, my wife was just sad.
We came home from church and decided she what she needed was to put on a warm sweater. So she did. Then she needed chocolate. I keep a kitkat hidden in the house for these very occasions. But, if you give a sad wife chocolate, she'll probably want something substantial to go with it. So she finished off the biscuits and gravy we had had for breakfast. As she was eating them and thinking deeply about her predicament she said, "Biscuits and Gravy. This is soul food. We should make this more often. Like for breakfast tomorrow."
Slowly, she started to laugh about other things. It was good to see. We played some Uno against each other and she decided now was the time to tap into her box of See's candy she'd gotten rather than partake of the KitKat. Each loss took another chocolate from the box. She didn't lose much, but after one in particular loss, she took a Scotchmollow from the box and looking at it said, "This is pusf."
I was confused, too.
She said it again. "Pusf." Really? Pusf?
Then with a big grin said, "Poor Unfortunate Soul Food."
The ability to quote Disney in a delightfully humorous way is what makes her such a remarkable woman. The ability to do so on a rough day makes her a champion. And the ability to do it while being so darn cute is what makes her my wife.
Pusf. Classic.
Friday, May 10, 2013
Cookies!
This the first of what could be many posts about someone who impacted my life more than I ever hoped they would.
I hope I've done enough explaining about missionaries at this point that I can simply say, this friend was one of my companions for three months (or two transfer cycles [or 12 weeks {or 84 long days}]) Only one companion of mine ever demanded an "ET" or "Emergency Transfer" meaning that there were such serious conflicts between the two of us that they couldn't be resolved and we had to switch it up. This is that story.
We'd come home from eating dinner with a nice, though someone unstable old man who I'll call Steve McLaughlin. Steve is a story for another time, because like all guys called 'Steve' he's a ball of fun. Anyway, we'd eaten with Steve and we had something of his that we'd borrowed so when he dropped us off at our apartment, I grabbed it and headed back out to give it to him. When I came back, my companion was nowhere to be found. After a brief search, I discovered that he was in the bathroom. So I sat down and started to read. After a while of reading, I realized he was taking a rather long time, so I went to knock on the door when I heard him talking to someone. I was very confused by this turn of events, so I listened. I realized rather quickly that whoever he was talking to was getting an earful about some jerk who was a control freak, didn't listen and hated my companion, who, for this story I'll just call Teddy.
Turns out, Teddy thought that control freak was me. Uh oh.
My first response was surprise because though he wasn't my best friend, he was also not someone I abhorred to be with... yet. So I walked back to the couch, but could now hear him more clearly. I listened with gritted teeth for a few minutes. After a while of more slander being laid out there, and this had taken at least 15-20 minutes, I finally just yelled, "If you have such a big problem, why don't you come out here and talk to me about it?"
This was followed by silence and then, "Elder Savage has been eavesdropping! See what a bad person he is!"
Right Teddy. You're talking angrily on the phone in the bathroom in a small apartment with hardwood floors that create echoes. Yep. I'm the bad guy here.
So anyway, he comes out and hands me the phone (didn't even flush. I mean come on man!) and I am told by a friend of mine on the other end of the phone, "Listen, I know you're upset, but just keep your mouth closed and we'll get this figured out."
So I do as I'm told. I just live with it. In quiet fury. Plotting his untimely demise.
That phone call ends and there's about ten minutes of silence. I mean how are you supposed to do anything (much less when the 'thing' you're supposed to do is teach people how to have peace in their homes and lives) when that just happened?
Then the phone rings again. Teddy answers, but it's for me.
It's PJ. The Man. President Jensen. The person who takes care of all of the missionaries Someone we love deeply and are dreadfully afraid of all at once. He takes ten seconds and says, "Hi. Sorry about all of this. I thought this would work, and I was wrong. You're too intense for him. You'll have a new companion in the morning. Please give the phone back to --" and I just handed him the phone.
Now, one of the things that I take a little pride in is that I work well with other people. My mom taught me to play nice. I happen to have many great friends you can read about. I am a talker, and a decent listener. So why this? Why now? I felt like I'd failed. I recognized this friend of mine could be somewhat more sensitive than my other friends (as I write about him again, and again you'll get more of this) and I thought I'd done a good job. I hadn't. This was day 4 of us being together. His birthday, a weekend, and now Monday night. Yuck.
Then came the worst part. As he started packing his bags, and trying to suppress smiles of having won he came over to where I was and started telling me things like, "You're a good guy, we're just different people." or "I'm really excited for you, this will be a good opportunity for both of us." and "Maybe this is what God had planned, you know? He works in mysterious ways." And even "Listen. It's not your fault you're a horrible person, I'm just better than you and deserve to get as far away from you as possible. Or maybe I'm just a big whiner, and annoying and you're lucky to be rid of me because I'm crazy, but probably you're just the devil incarnate and no one will ever love you and you should just go die."
... you know, or something like that. My memory is a little fuzzy on the details. Either way, I felt very talked down to by someone who had just crapped all over me. So, I did the only thing I could think to do.
I walked into the kitchen, pulled out a large knife and stabbed him repeatedly in the chest until he couldn't scream any more.
No wait, sorry, that's what I wanted to do. Here's what really happened.
I walked into the kitchen pulled out a large knife, slit him across the throat and skipped away as he fell to his death... no, sorry, that was the red velvet cupcake incident. We'll get to that one.
I walked into the kitchen, pulled out a jar of M&M cookie mix that happened to be in there and fired up the oven. As he continued to go between talking down to me and sorting his clothes back into his suitcase I pulled out butter, milk, whatever ingredient went into the cookies, mixed and baked and did exactly what my mother would have had me do. I pulled those cookies right out of the oven, and they were perfect. Soft, warm, and would have melted right in your mouth. He was in the kitchen talking to me as this happened, perhaps hoping to steal one of my precious cookies. I placed them carefully on a plate and made sure he didn't get to steal one of them. I handed the whole plate to him.
He was confused by this.
"What is this for?"
"Eating, generally."
"For me?"
"Yes, for you Teddy."
"Why?"
I told him the truth. It was because I didn't hate him. I told him I was sad things weren't going to work out, and that we hadn't really given it a fair shake, but that I understood his decision and hoped him to have the best of luck. He was once again very quiet after this. Though he did take my cookies.
So I sat down and read some more and he sat and nibbled on cookies. After a few minutes he looked at me and said, "Do you think we could make this companionship work?"
"Teddy," I responded, "With the Lord's help I can make anything work."
And there you have it ladies and gentlemen. We ended up staying together twenty one times longer! Our days were just as crazy. There were other attempts to get an ET, but he was rejected on the grounds that I make fabulous cookies from there on out. This man, though it may not seem like it now, would deeply move me and humble me in ways I couldn't imagine, and to this day, I'm very grateful we happened to have a jar of M&M cookie mix in our cupboard.
And not many sharp knives.
I hope I've done enough explaining about missionaries at this point that I can simply say, this friend was one of my companions for three months (or two transfer cycles [or 12 weeks {or 84 long days}]) Only one companion of mine ever demanded an "ET" or "Emergency Transfer" meaning that there were such serious conflicts between the two of us that they couldn't be resolved and we had to switch it up. This is that story.
We'd come home from eating dinner with a nice, though someone unstable old man who I'll call Steve McLaughlin. Steve is a story for another time, because like all guys called 'Steve' he's a ball of fun. Anyway, we'd eaten with Steve and we had something of his that we'd borrowed so when he dropped us off at our apartment, I grabbed it and headed back out to give it to him. When I came back, my companion was nowhere to be found. After a brief search, I discovered that he was in the bathroom. So I sat down and started to read. After a while of reading, I realized he was taking a rather long time, so I went to knock on the door when I heard him talking to someone. I was very confused by this turn of events, so I listened. I realized rather quickly that whoever he was talking to was getting an earful about some jerk who was a control freak, didn't listen and hated my companion, who, for this story I'll just call Teddy.
Turns out, Teddy thought that control freak was me. Uh oh.
My first response was surprise because though he wasn't my best friend, he was also not someone I abhorred to be with... yet. So I walked back to the couch, but could now hear him more clearly. I listened with gritted teeth for a few minutes. After a while of more slander being laid out there, and this had taken at least 15-20 minutes, I finally just yelled, "If you have such a big problem, why don't you come out here and talk to me about it?"
This was followed by silence and then, "Elder Savage has been eavesdropping! See what a bad person he is!"
Right Teddy. You're talking angrily on the phone in the bathroom in a small apartment with hardwood floors that create echoes. Yep. I'm the bad guy here.
So anyway, he comes out and hands me the phone (didn't even flush. I mean come on man!) and I am told by a friend of mine on the other end of the phone, "Listen, I know you're upset, but just keep your mouth closed and we'll get this figured out."
So I do as I'm told. I just live with it. In quiet fury. Plotting his untimely demise.
That phone call ends and there's about ten minutes of silence. I mean how are you supposed to do anything (much less when the 'thing' you're supposed to do is teach people how to have peace in their homes and lives) when that just happened?
Then the phone rings again. Teddy answers, but it's for me.
It's PJ. The Man. President Jensen. The person who takes care of all of the missionaries Someone we love deeply and are dreadfully afraid of all at once. He takes ten seconds and says, "Hi. Sorry about all of this. I thought this would work, and I was wrong. You're too intense for him. You'll have a new companion in the morning. Please give the phone back to --" and I just handed him the phone.
Now, one of the things that I take a little pride in is that I work well with other people. My mom taught me to play nice. I happen to have many great friends you can read about. I am a talker, and a decent listener. So why this? Why now? I felt like I'd failed. I recognized this friend of mine could be somewhat more sensitive than my other friends (as I write about him again, and again you'll get more of this) and I thought I'd done a good job. I hadn't. This was day 4 of us being together. His birthday, a weekend, and now Monday night. Yuck.
Then came the worst part. As he started packing his bags, and trying to suppress smiles of having won he came over to where I was and started telling me things like, "You're a good guy, we're just different people." or "I'm really excited for you, this will be a good opportunity for both of us." and "Maybe this is what God had planned, you know? He works in mysterious ways." And even "Listen. It's not your fault you're a horrible person, I'm just better than you and deserve to get as far away from you as possible. Or maybe I'm just a big whiner, and annoying and you're lucky to be rid of me because I'm crazy, but probably you're just the devil incarnate and no one will ever love you and you should just go die."
... you know, or something like that. My memory is a little fuzzy on the details. Either way, I felt very talked down to by someone who had just crapped all over me. So, I did the only thing I could think to do.
I walked into the kitchen, pulled out a large knife and stabbed him repeatedly in the chest until he couldn't scream any more.
No wait, sorry, that's what I wanted to do. Here's what really happened.
I walked into the kitchen pulled out a large knife, slit him across the throat and skipped away as he fell to his death... no, sorry, that was the red velvet cupcake incident. We'll get to that one.
I walked into the kitchen, pulled out a jar of M&M cookie mix that happened to be in there and fired up the oven. As he continued to go between talking down to me and sorting his clothes back into his suitcase I pulled out butter, milk, whatever ingredient went into the cookies, mixed and baked and did exactly what my mother would have had me do. I pulled those cookies right out of the oven, and they were perfect. Soft, warm, and would have melted right in your mouth. He was in the kitchen talking to me as this happened, perhaps hoping to steal one of my precious cookies. I placed them carefully on a plate and made sure he didn't get to steal one of them. I handed the whole plate to him.
He was confused by this.
"What is this for?"
"Eating, generally."
"For me?"
"Yes, for you Teddy."
"Why?"
I told him the truth. It was because I didn't hate him. I told him I was sad things weren't going to work out, and that we hadn't really given it a fair shake, but that I understood his decision and hoped him to have the best of luck. He was once again very quiet after this. Though he did take my cookies.
So I sat down and read some more and he sat and nibbled on cookies. After a few minutes he looked at me and said, "Do you think we could make this companionship work?"
"Teddy," I responded, "With the Lord's help I can make anything work."
And there you have it ladies and gentlemen. We ended up staying together twenty one times longer! Our days were just as crazy. There were other attempts to get an ET, but he was rejected on the grounds that I make fabulous cookies from there on out. This man, though it may not seem like it now, would deeply move me and humble me in ways I couldn't imagine, and to this day, I'm very grateful we happened to have a jar of M&M cookie mix in our cupboard.
And not many sharp knives.
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