See John write

I cannot believe how this story has lived on. It certainly is a true story. But to my mind, it is quite unremarkable.

For starters, one has to understand the circumstances. I was raised by a man who loved his boat just slightly less than he loved his family. (And when I say “just slightly” I mean that if he had to choose between us, he’d have had to think about it for a second We didn’t track sand or mud into the boat—EVER. We knew the ritual. We all became very adept at balancing on the side of the boat and thoroughly swishing our feet back and forth to remove every last speck of sand before pulling ourselves the rest of the way into the boat.

We didn’t spill food in the boat. We didn’t step on the seats or randomly throw ropes or gloves on the floor. We took care of the boat.

Then when I was about 14 or 15, Dad announced that he had purchased a time share in a houseboat at Lake Powell. He might as well have told us all that we’d all been translated and that for two weeks out of every year we would be living in the Celestial Kingdom. We were overwhelmed with joy.

When our week finally came, we were again overwhelmed. The houseboat was not only beautiful and thoroughly equipped, it was BRAND NEW! We didn’t buy very many brand new things in our family. And especially not vehicles. So here we were on a beautiful, brand new houseboat. (Are you glimpsing the picture of the pressure to take care of the houseboat? If we weren’t to track a speck of sand into the little ski boat, what about the beautiful floating luxury hotel?)

So it was that my little sister and I were sitting in the “living room” of the houseboat. We were on the spotless carpet enjoying a friendly game of speed. I was also enjoying an icy cold can of black cherry Shasta. At one point, the card game became a little frantic. As sometimes will happen to frantic children, the can of soda was tipped over.

I nearly fainted. There on the spotless carpet was a puddle of dark purple liquid. This was bad. Really bad. I was certain it would be the cause of my being cast into outer darkness.

I’m not sure who said it—April or myself—but someone said, “Oh, suck!”

It’s really not possible to explain the thought process in that fraction of a second. But I realized that the soda was kind of pooled on top of the carpet. In an instant, I put my lips to the carpet and … well, I sucked that black cherry soda right up.

In the back of my mind, I can kind of remember April’s voice saying, “Ahhhhhhgggggrrrrooooooooosssssssssssssss!”

But in my mind, I was a hero. I had saved the carpet from a certain permanent stain. And I had preserved myself from being cast off forever.

So you can see there’s really not that much to it. A little soda spill and quick-thinking teenager to save the day.

It’s been days. I want to write. But I’m stuck.

Part of it has been that work is very busy. Too busy.

And school is busy. And I have a class from the most annoying professor EVER.

And, yeah.

Help. Ask me a question. Send me a teaser. Something to inspire the creative juices. Please.

1. The smell of turkey roasting in the oven

2. Stealing bits of turkey while carving the bird

3. Dark meat

4. Light meat

5. The fact that generations have copied that first genius who put cranberries on his/her turkey

6. Turkey sandwiches

7. Turkey omlettes

8. Stuffing, stuffing, stuffing

9. Pumpkin Pie

10. Great memories with family

I felt the blood drain out of my head. I stumbled to the couch and sat down. “Is he OK?” I asked hesitantly.

“We don’t know yet. They’re working on him right now.”

I’d never heard my mom sound so afraid.

“Mom, it’ll be alright,” I said doing my best to sound reassuring. “I will leave right away. Have you called Melissa?”

My sister Melissa was living in Phoenix with her husband and 7 kids. I knew they’d been having serious financial struggles. This would be devastating for her—to come would be far too expensive, to not come would be emotional torture.

“Yes, I called her,” Mom said. “I don’t know what she’s going to do.”

Mom paused. I knew what she wanted me to say. But what could I say? This was not the time to explain that I was unemployed.

“I’ll call her. We’ll figure something out, Mom. … She needs to be there.”

“Thank you, Brian. And hurry.” Mom started to sob.

I stayed on the line with her for several more minutes until she was able to compose herself. I explained that it would actually be faster for me to drive than to fly. Mom and Dad were in Evansville, Indiana. The drive down from Chicago was about 6 or 7 hours. Once in college, I’d made it in 5 hours and 20 minutes. I had a feeling this trip would be even faster.

When I hung up the phone, I put my head between my hands and sat there for a minute. I didn’t even realize that Jenny was still in the room. She sat down beside me and placed a tentative hand on my shoulder. Neither of us said a word.

I felt my emotions welling up and then they started to overflow. I cried and Jenny sat with me. She reached up and stroked the back of my head. I leaned toward her and she slipped her arm around my shoulder and just held me.

Finally, I stood up and wiped my eyes. “I’ve got to get on the road. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

“Of course. I understand,” Jenny said as she stood. “I’ll help you get packed.”

It seemed like five minutes later I was on the road. Jenny said she’d try to get a flight and come down on the weekend. I thanked her over and over.

The sun had already set in the west. The lights of the city were soon in my rear view mirror.

I pulled my car into the parking garage under our building. I turned off the engine and just sat there for a few moments. Everything I’d been working for … it was gone. I’d sacrificed so much for that job. My dream had been to become a partner. Impossible decisions when I had to choose between Jenny and the job—I gave myself to the job. But I believed I was looking at what was best for both of us in the long run. I never loved the job more than Jenny. I wanted to make her happy. That’s what I thought I was working for.

But now sitting alone in my car, I felt like such a fool. Mr. Graham had warned me. He had given me every chance to step up.

I was empty. I was losing Jenny. I had ruined my own career.

Finally, I got out of my car and went to the elevator. I felt like I hardly had strength to stand. Mindlessly, I watched the numbers click up to 10. The doors opened and I walked down the hall to our apartment. I put the key in the lock but discovered it was already open.

Jenny was standing in the hall. She had the phone in her hand and she turned and looked me straight in the eye. There was something different. Something in her eyes. A softness … that I had not seen for so very long. I wanted to run into her arms. I needed her right now.

“Brian,” she said her voice soft and full of emotion. “It’s your mom.” She extended the phone to me.

“My mom?” I said as I took the phone from her hand.

I put the receiver to my ear. “Mom?”

“Brian, honey, Daddy has had a stroke,” Mom said as her voice quivered.

“A stroke?”

Step 8

1. Lies

“Hey there, good lookin’,” Jenny giggled through the phone.

“Hey,” I answered.

“Happy Anniversary!” she added enthusiastically.

“Yeah,” I said without matching her enthusiasm.

“Brian, what’s the matter?”

“We’re gonna have to postpone our plans, babe.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“It’s work. I’ve been assigned to evaluate this hot new high-tech firm. We just got their books today. I’m supposed to fly out with one of the vp’s tomorrow morning. So …”

I could hear Jenny’s disappointment. “So you’re working all night.”

“This is a big deal, Jen. They’re showing they trust me.”

“So is it just you on the project?”

“Well, no. Pamela got assigned too.”

“Is Pamela that leggy blonde down the hall?”

“Don’t go there,” I warned. “This is work. She got assigned to the team. It’s not like I picked her or something.”

“You couldn’t tell them it was your wedding anniversary?”

“Jenny, don’t whine. C’mon, this is good for both of us. This could be a big break for us.”

“Will I get to see you at all?”

“I’ll have to shower and shave before the flight. But I might have to just go to the gym if I don’t have enough time. I’ll come home if I can. But I don’t want to promise you I’ll be there if I don’t know.”

~~~~~~

The memory had come back in a flood. Jenny had gone to such great lengths to plan out the whole night. We were going to re-create our first date. She even remembered exactly what we were both wearing. I had thought it was sweet but a little childish.

The chance to score big at work actually seemed more appealing. At 4:00 a.m., Pamela and I had finished up our work. Pamela suggested we grab some coffee.

Jenny had called the office to check on my plans while we were gone. I don’t know why I felt so guilty. It was only coffee. And we’d been up all night. We certainly needed the caffeine. But when I saw Jenny’s name on my cell phone, I panicked. “No, I’m not with her. I’m headed to the gym. … The flight’s really early. I’m so sorry.”

~~~~~~

“Are you even listening to me?” Mr. Graham grumbled.

“Yeah, yeah,” I lied again.

“I warned you, Brian. I fought for you. I told you to start fighting.” Mr. Graham’s voice grew louder with each statement.

“I know. I really appreciate all you’ve done,” I said.

“Brian, clean out your desk. It’s over. You’re done here.”

Thanks to Heidi for this blog idea. I really have no idea how this is going to turn out. But here goes.

I am picky about two-ply instead of one-ply.

I am picky about good bread for my sandwiches. (Get that Wonderbread outta here!)

I am picky about sand in my boat.

I am picky about loading a moving truck.

I am picky about the movies I watch.

I am picky about being on time.

I am picky about holiday traditions.

I am picky about my disposable razor (Gillette Pivot Plus)

I am laid back about my clothes. (Are they clean? Do they fit? That’s about it.)

I am laid back about work.

I am laid back about my car/vehicle.

I am laid back about shampoo and all other hair products.

I am laid back about money (sort of).

(You know, I’m realizing this would probably be a very different list if I asked my wife or kids or friends to make this list about me.)

So what are you picky/laid back about.

“I’ve honestly been trying,” I said to Reverend Spagnoli as we walked around the small courtyard behind his church.

He nodded and waited for me to continue.

“But she’s so cold. I don’t know … I don’t know that there’s anything left.”

The reverend crossed his hands behind his back and looked at the ground. “That first night you walked into the church, do you remember?”

“Of course,” I answered.

“I thought you were here for our twelve step meeting. Have you ever been to one?” he asked.

“No.”

“I see these men and women come in here. They are broken. Most of them have destroyed every relationship in their life before they feel so alone and afraid that they desperately reach out for the help they need.”

“I see,” I said trying to follow where he was going.

“We help them along, we help them reach out for help from God. But then we reach step 8. Do you know the steps?” The reverend had now paused and was looking me straight in the eye.

“Step 8?” I responded.

“We ask them to make a list of all the people that they’ve wronged and to make amends wherever possible.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do. Trying to make amends,” I answered.

“Amends for what?” Reverend Spagnoli asked pointedly.

“Well … for everything.”

“Ah,” the reverend said as he turned and began to walk again. After a moment, he paused again. “You dug this hole one shovelful at a time. You cannot fill it up with a backhoe.”

“So what are you saying?” I asked.

“Step 8 is a hard step. Making the list is painful—if you’re honest with yourself. But the pain is usually only a small portion of what has been inflicted on others. And without the list, well … then you end up as clumsy as a backhoe.”

~~~~~~

It was several days after my visit with the reverend that I was sitting at my desk at work. A yellow pad sat in front of me. I had scrawled “Step 8″ across the top. The blank page seemed to stare back at me, waiting for me to reach the proper degree of self-honesty. But my memories seemed so far away. The present seemed so overwhelming that I could hardly see beyond it in my mind.

I don’t know how long I sat there. I wanted so badly to make some entry. Some starting point. Something real. But it just wouldn’t come out. I felt so helpless.

Suddenly I realized that my eyes were welling up. I couldn’t believe I was trying to do this at work. I dabbed my eyes with the back of my wrist. I felt oddly uncomfortable, as if someone were watching me. I glanced up and there in the hallway outside my office door was William Graham.

He folded his arms across his chest and his eyes burned a hole into my chest.

“Mr. Graham,” I said feebly as I stood from my desk.

Sometimes just saying the word Friday can make me happy.

I remember when Rock 103 used to start their block party weekends at noon on Fridays. (For those who don’t remember: a block party weekend was when instead of playing a whole bunch of songs from different artists, they would chose three songs from one artist and play them all in a row. Kind of like a mini Greatest Hits.)

I remember going to Friday night football games in high school.

I remember taking Janet to see Ghost on a Friday night date.

I remember inventing “How-they-ought-to-be Fajitas” on a Friday.

I remember when I was still in high school spending the night with Dave and Justin at BYU on Friday nights so that we could go to Cougar Stadium on a perfect fall afternoon and watch football.

I remember when I worked at FranklinCovey that leaving early on Fridays was almost expected.

I remember leaving on road trips to Vegas on Friday nights when Janet and I were still in Provo.

Fridays are awesome. What are your favorite Friday memories?

Our youngest is turning 6. Can you believe it?!

So in Sunday School over the last few weeks studying Paul’s writings, I’ve realized one of the great spiritual dilemmas of belonging to the church.

Paul makes it so clear that “There is none righteous, no not one.” We are all sinners. We have all “come short of the glory of God.” And in our hearts, we all know it is true. No matter how much good we do, no matter how many we serve, how valiantly we stand as a witness for Christ, we are still a sinner and utterly unworthy on our own to deserve anything but condemnation.

Then in 2 Nephi 25:23 we are instructed that it is “by grace that we are saved after all we can do.” And again, in our hearts we know this is true. We know God will require our best efforts. And further, we have no doubt that he knows precisely what our best efforts are. And we also know how often we fall short—precisely because of what Paul pointed out.

So we are caught between knowing how desperately we need Christ’s help and how far we fall short in trying to do “all we can do.”

I once heard an educator criticize the way tests are given in schools today. He explained that it makes no sense to ask questions that you know you’ve taught the kids the answers to. He said that for any test to be valid, it must test the limits. You must find the point for each student where the learning and understanding end. Because only then will you know what else you need to teach.

God has commanded that we do “all we can do” to find our limits. He knows we will fall short—that’s exactly the way the test is designed. Though failure is uncomfortable and often unpleasant, it is the daily producer of learning, humility, and perseverance.

Does anybody really like Boss’ Day? Or National Pets with Bad Breath Awareness Day? Or any other “Day” that seems to be made up by Hallmark and/or some wacko ultra-liberal or ultra-conservative group to serve some obscure purpose?

So it was with a small dose of skepticism that I read on my sister’s blog about NaBloPoMo or National Blog Posting Month. Apparently, there just aren’t enough blog posts in the world, so this is a month dedicated to getting every blogger everywhere to post every day for a whole month.

Couldn’t we have started with NaBloPoWe or how ’bout NaBloPoDa? A whole month of good ideas? Do you know what kind of dearth this will create in the coming months? Sure, it sounds great now, but when we’re all sitting around in January and good blog posts are as rare as an intelligent comment from Mike Tyson, well, where will we be then?

Whew. Glad I got that off my chest.

Do I still have you? Truthfully, it’s kind of a fun idea. But I still don’t think that after I’m stuffed with turkey and all the trimmings on Thanksgiving that I’m going to run to the computer to share with you my tryptophan coma.

Maybe we need to form a NaBloPoMo Anonymous Support Group. “Hi, I’m John and I’m a blogger. I’ve been free from good ideas since November 2nd.” Pause for supportive applause from the group.

Several days went by. I thought about Reverend Spagnoli. I thought about Jenny. She seemed colder toward me every day. And though I wanted things to be different so badly, I found my tongue to be just as sharp as ever. She’d make a backhanded comment and I’d snap at the bait.

It was a Tuesday. I was out for an early morning run. For some reason that Tuesday, I took a different route.

As I rounded the corner of 7th Avenue and Poplar Street, I ran right into a cloud of the most amazing aroma of sweet pastries and pungent coffee brewing.

“Oh my goodness,” I said aloud. It had been years since I had been down this street. But right there in front of me was this little German bakery where Jenny and I used to go for breakfast every Saturday morning. I could see the plump woman behind the counter in her white apron with a dusting of flour on her face.

In a flash, I remembered Jenny’s face smiling as we shared one of the decadent treats. I turned and headed right for the door. A little bell announced my entrance into the little shop.

The plump woman smiled at me and came right to the counter. “Can I help you?” she asked in a thick German accent.

“Yes,” I answered, “I’ll take two of these chocolate pastries.” I pointed through the glass at the flaky, buttery pastry filled with heavenly dark chocolate filling.

She quickly put two in a bag. “Anything else?” she asked.

“No that will do,” I said as I reached for my wallet. Suddenly, my heart sank.

“Oh, no,” I said as the plump woman started ringing up my purchase. “I don’t have my wallet,” I said to her.

She looked up at me with a blend of confusion and irritation on her face.

For one moment, I considered trying to explain how much this gesture might mean to my wife. But I couldn’t even imagine how ridiculous I would sound. “I’m so sorry,” I finally said, “I’ll be back later.”

When I walked into our apartment, Jenny was just walking into the kitchen. She was wearing her favorite gray suit and her hair was pulled up in back.

“Hey,” I said. “You’ll never guess where I happened to run past this morning.”

“What?” she asked as she pulled open a cupboard.

“Remember that little German bakery on Poplar street?”

“On Poplar?” she repeated mindlessly as she poured a cup of juice.

“Yeah, we used to go there for breakfast on Saturdays,” I said.

“Hm,” she responded.

I hesitated for a moment and Jenny hurried past me into the living room. “I tried to buy you one of those chocolate pastries you like so much,” I said. “But I forgot I was in my running shorts and didn’t have my wallet.”

“Good,” Jenny said emphatically. “The last thing my thighs need is a chocolate pastry for breakfast.”

And with that, she whisked out the door.