See John write

True to her word, Jenny was sitting in the living room when I arrived home. I guess I should have anticipated the skeptical look on her face. But I had been hoping to see a smile.

Jenny leaned back into the couch and crossed her arms.

I pulled out the bouquet of flowers I’d been hiding behind my back. Four carnations. Jenny’s face changed. But I didn’t get the smile I had imagined. I could not tell what she was feeling or thinking.

“Brian,” she said softly. “What are you doing?”

The whole drive back, I’d been practicing what I’d say. I knew this might be my last chance. I was so excited to deliver my first apology. But suddenly, my heart was pounding and my throat started to close off.

“Jenny.” I was embarrassed to hear my voice squeak like I was hitting puberty again. But I pressed forward. “I know I have not been there for you. I know that it seems our dreams have taken us in different directions. And I know that I’ve been the one to blame.”

I saw Jenny’s lips press together. I knew that she wanted to lash out, to take the bait and hogtie me with my own heartstrings. But she didn’t. She waited.

I took a deep breath. “There was a night, you had made big plans for us. You were so excited. But I let my work get in the way. I promised you that I’d make it up to you.” I paused, “And I realized that I never have.”

“I’m afraid that it’s too late. It’s just not ….” Jenny’s voice trailed off and she shook her head.

I had let my hope build up inside me for the whole six hour drive home. Now, I felt like I was trying to hold water in my hands. I stammered.

“It’s only too late if … we decide not to even try.”

“I tried, Brian. I tried for years.” Jenny’s eyes were turning red.

“I know you did. That’s what I’ve been realizing. That’s why I want to make it right.”

“What can you do? What can make it right?” Jenny’s voice started to rise.

“I know the time in the past is the past. I can’t bring it back. I can’t make that right.”

I could see on her face that she wanted to say it, she wanted to open her mouth and smack me right between the eyes with “Exactly!” But she didn’t. Again she waited.

“But once you had a dream of the future and I was part of that dream. All I’m asking is for a chance to show you that I want to be part of that dream again.”

She tipped her head a little to the side and studied my face. “So … what night are you talking about? Because, honestly, that has happened so many times—”

“Our first anniversary,” I interrupted as I pulled out two tickets to the Shedd Aquarium.

Finally, I got a reaction I had been hoping for. She stood up and took the tickets from my hand, like she was checking to see if they were real.

For the first time in a long time, the chasm between us seemed a little smaller. It was only one moment. But it was real. And it was a place to start.

I have lost a friend. He was a really smart man, brilliant really. But he never made you feel inferior. In fact, he was so incredibly down-to-earth that it felt like we could talk about anything. We covered lots of topics over the years and each time I found myself impressed again at his simple yet profound wisdom.

Perhaps more than anything else, I’ll miss his smile. Every time I turned around, I would hear about some way he had helped people. He had a way of being right there whenever there was trouble or a disaster. It was as if his heart were as big as the whole world. And he had this way of making everyone smile. When he was around, we knew everything would be OK.

He taught me so much over the years. We loved to talk about spiritual things. To my friend, high ideals were of little use unless they were applied in everyday life. He had a way of stretching my mind and then showing me what difference I could make in my life with the new learning.

In his later years, I could tell he was lonely. His sweetheart had passed a few years ago and he missed her terribly. But never once did I see him down or discouraged. In fact, he kept his head up and his pace steady right up until the end—an example I can only hope follow someday.

I will think of him often. And I will smile. He’s back with his sweetheart and with his friends. But I will miss him. Very much.

I’m certain that my trying to explain my thoughts is going to be an act of futility, but nevertheless I’m going to try.

Two unique experiences this weekend.

Saturday night we gathered in my parent’s basement to commemorate 44 years of marriage. We took the time to sit back and reminisce. Memories were shared. Gratitude was expressed. We laughed and cried. We connected.

Then Sunday night, Janet and I attended the first training session for our pioneer trek this summer. Our former bishop and his wife are in charge. And as we looked around the room, we found friend after friend. Some of them from our old ward. Some from our current ward. Some from soccer. An elder from Janet’s mission. People we know through volunteering at the school. And friends we made on our first trek.

I arrived home Sunday night with a profound appreciation for the great men and women—in and out of my family—that I have had the privilege to rub shoulders with. I know there are great people all over the world. I know that if I traveled far and wide, I would make new friends and probably feel much the same way about many others. But as I pondered the blessing of good people in my life, I felt as if I am surrounded by the best people on earth.

I am a blessed man.

I hurried home from work last night because we had a busy night of activities with the kids. As I rushed in the door, Janet rushed out to get Elizabeth to the church for her basketball game. We inhaled some grilled cheese sandwiches and then helped Nate get his soccer gear together because we would have to go straight from Elizabeth’s game to Nate’s.

We missed the first few minutes of the basketball game. (Elizabeth informed me that I missed her best plays of the night ) But as I walked into the gym, I looked out on the floor. Elizabeth was backpedaling at about midcourt. She reached both hands above her head and intercepted a pass! It was sweet! Now understand that this is not Beehive basketball like in past years. This is with all the YW. So Elizabeth is a “little” intimidated on the offensive end. But she was a defensive spark plug out there. It was so fun to see this dainty little lady breaking up fast breaks, knocking down passes, and hustling all over the court. I had never seen her play basketball in her whole life, and it just tickled me to watch her play with such intensity.

Then we hustled over for Nate and McKay’s indoor soccer game. They were matched up against a very good team. After a few warm up drills, the game finally was ready to begin. Nate was lined up as the right wing. The opening kick off was sent right to him. He smoothly juked his defender and in a step or two was one-on-one with the goalie. Calmly and coolly, he slotted the ball inside the far post. The game was 10 seconds old and Nate had already put his team ahead.

A few minutes later, Nate was set up to receive an inbound pass with a defender right on his back. As the pass came to him, he heel-flicked it right between his defender’s legs to his teammate waiting in the corner. Then Nate streaked into the goalie box, where his teammate found him with a return pass. Nate tried the heel-flick again and nearly scored, the goalie just getting a foot on it to knock it away.

But as I said, they were up against a good team. They battled back and forth. McKay also had some sweet streaking runs up the right side. Nate was robbed of a terrific second half goal when he hit the inside of the post and the ball rolled back along the goal line where the goalie snatched it up. It looked like it had gone in from our angle (and of course, we’re completely objective . In the end, they lost the game, but it was very entertaining and fun.

To top off the night, Josh and I tag-teamed some revisions of an AP European History essay that he was working on. We wrestled a few sentences to the ground and ripped out a few superfluous words and phrases.

I went to bed thoroughly exhausted with a smile on my face.

So, Friday night, I had an epiphany. Or as Mr. Smee would describe it “Lightning has just struck my brain.” An entire plot for a brand new story unfolded to my mind.

The plot involves the UN, international law, a mysterious benevolent (or is he?) world leader, justice, mercy, letting criminals go free, one man’s fight against injustice, corruption, twists, turns, and eventual self discovery.

It is very exciting to me for one simple reason: it has NEVER happened to me before. All of the other stories I’ve written have all begun with simply a vague concept of how to move the action forward, how to build intrigue and suspense. But I’ve always lacked one thing: how in the world do I wrap it all neatly together so that when the reader reaches the last line he/she takes a deep breath and nods. That’s all I’ve wanted, but honestly it’s been my biggest struggle.

Then here out of the blue WHAM! Beginning to end. A story. A good story (I think).

Now the bad news. This isn’t the kind of story I could write on the blog. It’s going to take hundreds of pages to develop the whole plot.

And when am I going to have time to write a full novel? Between semester breaks? In my sleep? On the bus ride to work?

Your suggestions are welcome.

Three days later, Dad was doing much better. He spoke a little slower than usual but his wit was plenty quick. We knew he was going to be alright when the nurse asked him where she should put his lunch and he whispered in his dry, cracking voice, “How ’bout in the … toilet … where it belongs.”

I didn’t say much during dad’s stay in the hospital. I found myself watching my mom. She was never too  far from his bedside. And there was this look in her eye—especially when dad was asleep. She really loved him, which I guess shouldn’t have shocked me since they’d been married for more than 40 years.

But I’d grown up in their home. I’d been there when voices had been heated. It was usually about money or mom’s brother, Darrell. One of them would storm off. A door or two would slam. Melissa and I would almost always find some excuse to leave the house. And we knew that in the morning, we’d see mom send dad off to work with a kiss and everything would seem to be back to normal—well at least until Uncle Darrell came around again.

As a teenager, I think I convinced myself that they just kind of tolerated each other. But now sitting in dad’s hospital room, I could see how wrong I was.

~~~~~~

“So are you going to be able to make it?” I asked Jenny over the phone.

” I, um … I thought he was doing better,” she said.

“Well, yeah.”

“He’s not dying, right?” Jenny continued.

“No, he’s gonna pull through. But I, umm …”

“I just don’t think I should spend the money for the flight if he’s doing fine.”

I paused for a few seconds. There was so much I wanted to say. But the right words seemed to scatter from my mind like a flock of startled pigeons.

“Jenny?” I finally said.

“Yeah.”

“I need to tell you something,” I began.

“Brian, let’s not do this over the—”

“Jenny,” I interrupted. “I know you probably can’t believe this right now. But … I still love you.”

I waited for her to say something—anything. But the phone was silent.

“Brian, what are you doing?” Jenny finally asked softly.

“I’m not doing … I want you to know … I don’t know. Just don’t give up on … me.” I cringed at my own clumsiness.

Jenny paused again. “Give up?”

“Can we talk when I get home?” I asked tentatively.

“Sure,” Jenny answered in a whisper.

My wife has told and retold one of her childhood memories to our kids. It’s a story of how she was headed back to her classroom from an assembly when she was in 1st or 2nd grade. Her teacher had to stay behind for a few minutes so she just sent the kids down the hall on their own. As Janet passed one of the other classrooms, someone threw open the door and slammed Janet right in the forehead. The impact split a gash in her head, but because her teacher had said “Go straight to the classroom,” she obediently went to her classroom with blood dripping down her face.

Nice story, huh? Well, the other night Elizabeth asked me to tuck her into bed. As I was in her room, she asked, “Do you have any stories like when mom got hit with the door?”

I thought for a second and then remembered one experience on the playground when we lived in Boise. I was in Kindergarten or 1st grade. I was out at recess and I think I remember that I had been talking with my good friend who happened to be a girl. As I turned and started to walk away, there was a kid right in front of me. I didn’t know this kid. I had never talked to him. But he was staring right at me as if I had just insulted his grandma. Without warning, the kid punched me right in the nose. I was so stunned, I don’t think I said or did anything for several seconds. The kid walked away and I became aware that a large volume of blood was pouring out of my nose.

I went inside and found my teacher. She was very kind and helped me get the bleeding stopped. I think we tried to identify the perpetrator, but in my memory he was never brought to justice. I still have no idea what I had done to this kid. Maybe he liked the girl I had been talking to and he was insanely jealous. Maybe I looked like someone who just needed to get popped. Maybe his dog died that morning and he just had to take it out on someone. Who knows. Maybe I’ll call Paul Harvey and he can investigate and do a great little piece where we all get to find out “the rest of the story.”

Dear Anne Perry,

I don’t know you. But you are a friend of my mom. Last January, you gave a talk that impressed my mom so much that she got the text of your talk and shared it with her family.

As I read that e-mail from my mom, one phrase smacked me square in the face. It made me think about my life and what I was doing with each precious day. It made me look at my hopes and dreams for the future and consider new dreams.

That phrase? “To succeed at what is easy is a small victory.”

I don’t know what you thought when you wrote that phrase. But those words pricked my conscience. Was I spending my days accumulating small victories, doing that which was easy and patting myself on the back for it? When was the last time I truly took on something that was hard, that required work that stretched my physical, mental, or spiritual limits? At the end of my days, would I look back and see only a trail of small victories that never made a difference?

Your words changed the course of my 2007. And I thank you for that.

Sincerely,

John Crowley

P.S. (to those who have also read my sister’s awesome post on New Year’s resolutions) Leslie is also right. It is the small and simple things. Over the last year, I have come to believe in setting an ambitious course and then doing the small daily things that move steadily forward along that course. All victories are born in simple daily living.

The closer I got to the hospital the bigger the pit in my stomach grew. Something about the smell of antiseptic and the way people seemed to feel the need to whisper all the time made me physically uncomfortable. And thinking about seeing my dad laying there with tubes down his throat … it seemed more than I could take right now.

But I knew mom would need me. She had a way of overreacting that had always given us a good laugh. Though nothing was funny now. And I knew mom would be a bundle of the most horrendous “what if’s.”

Melissa had called on my cell phone somewhere south of Terre Haute. I was so grateful to hear her voice because I was getting very drowsy. We talked about flights and I gave her my credit card number. I worried that I would regret it later when the bill came. But for the moment, it seemed like the right thing to do. Though I did allow myself one self-indulgent thought about my slacker brother-in-law.

Before I knew it, I was pulling into the parking lot of St. Mary’s Medical Center. I took a deep breath and climbed out of the car. My back was so stiff from the long drive that I took a moment to stretch it in the cool night air before heading into the hospital.

The lobby was virtually empty. A friendly looking lady sat behind the reception counter. I asked her for my father’s room number. She tapped quietly on her computer keyboard for a moment or two, then told me how to get to the intensive care unit. “You’ll have to ask the nurse at the desk in ICU for his specific room.”

I thanked her and headed for the elevators.

When I reached the ICU floor, the elevator doors slid open. I could see my mom directly down the hall at the nurse’s station. She turned and our eyes immediately met. I hurried down the hall toward her. She almost collapsed into my arms. I held her for a long time.

“Mom,” I finally said, “how is he doing?”

“We don’t know yet,” she sobbed.

“Have they told you anything?” I asked.

“They say they’re ‘hopeful’—but I don’t know what that means.”

I held mom for a few more minutes and then she walked me to his room. Mom was holding my arm and I could feel her grip tighten as we pushed the door open.

I looked at my dad. His eyes were closed and a tube was taped to the corner of his mouth. I swallowed and felt the tightness of my own throat. I stepped to his bedside. Dad’s hand was laying motionless on top of the blankets. I took his hand in mine. It was surprisingly warm. For a reason I could not explain, the warmth of his hand gave me a sudden reassurance.

I turned to Mom. “He’s gonna be OK. He’s a tough old bird, Mom. He’ll be alright.”

She gave me a half smile and stepped closer to the bed.

As I turned back to look at Dad, his hand gently squeezed mine.