Bullying

Buckle up, people, it's a long read.

Earlier this week, my Twitter feed filled up with links to stories about a nine (nine!) year old in West Virginia who committed suicide as a result of alleged bullying by his classmates. It stuns me that I'm even writing that sentence.

How bad must the bullying have been to drive a nine year old boy to take his own life? What nine year old even thinks suicide is an option? What kind of world have we created where a suicide by a nine year old barely makes a headline? Those questions have plagued me since reading about this boy's story.

According to Stand for the Silent, 60% of 4th through 8th graders report being victims of bullying. Bullying victims are two to nine times more likely to consider suicide than those who are not bullied. DoSomething.org cites that over 3.2 million students are victims of bullying each year. 160,000 teen-agers skip school every day because of bullying. Then there's this super fun statistic: 1 in 4 teachers see nothing wrong with bullying and will intervene only 4% of the time. I'm troubled by that one because the teachers I know would bust skulls before they would let bullying go in their presence. In spite of that, bullying does go on, particularly in our schools.

In 1980, at the height of my awful delayed puberty early teen-age awkwardness (I've shared the pictures so you know I'm not exaggerating), I entered the maelstrom known as high school. I wasn't an A-Lister by any stretch of the imagination but I didn't think I was on the bottom rung of my very class-conscious high school. I had friends and didn't do anything to stand out, for better or worse, my freshman year, or so I thought. One day mimeographed copies (remember it was 1980 - there were no Mac's, no boss design publishing software) of our high school's crudely produced "underground" newspaper, "Off the Deep End,"  (I still remember the name thirty six years later) were slipped under classroom doors and strewn about the hallways of the school. It mostly consisted of school yard gossip, including one surprising item outing me by name as gay because I'd been seen having lunch with a few girls on more than one occasion. What made me gay apparently was the fact that there were no other guys at those lunches (high school logic is awesome!). I was gutted as I read those few sentences. This was 1980 and the worst, the very worst thing you could be called in our high school, besides poor, was gay. As far as I knew, my fourteen year old life was over and I left campus and walked home. It was a very emotional walk. When I got home, my mother, surprised to find me there and not in school, listened as I wept (like I said I was convinced my world had collapsed). She helped me pull myself together and then did something I'll never forget and for which I am forever grateful. She told me in no uncertain terms I was not going to worry about what had been said about me. She told me I was going back to school. She told me I was to go up to the first seniors I saw and make a way to have a conversation with them. She told me she loved me and then she told me to get in the car and that I was going back to school.

I was terrified on that ride back but I was determined to follow her advice. As I got back to campus, I realize now that I should have been praying for the principal who was going to be getting an earful of righteous rage from my mother. Instead, I saw a group of seniors I knew and steeling myself, I went right up to them and asked what was up. After some awkward small chat, one of them said, "Dude, don't even sweat what was in the paper. No one reads it anyway." I took great comfort in that and within a few days, it seemed to have been forgotten. I'd like to say that my brief experience made me an anti-bullying advocate. It didn't, at least not then. I'm ashamed to say that when the opportunity presented itself during those ridiculous high school years, I tried to assume the role of bully because that's how my high school mind worked. My own experience being bullied never justified my own weak attempts at bullying. I knew better. Those opportunities were rare and I feel shame for them to this day and I am truly sorry for those moments.

That was thirty six years ago and as far as bullying was concerned, my experience was tame. But as I just wrote about it, it was with trepidation and shaking hands. I was being bullied for something I wasn't. I wasn't gay. I was able to shrug it off. I was lucky. But what about those that can't shrug it off? What about those who are bullied every day because of their sexuality? Or how they look? Or act? Or because they've made the cardinal sin of not fitting in? I can't imagine the torment of being subject to bullying every day as a teen-ager and its lasting effects. That torment is a significant reason behind the torrent of teen-age suicide in our country.

Our country, though, seems disconcertingly comfortable with bullying, especially on a national scale. So comfortable that we may be on the precipice of electing our first ever Bully-In-Chief. The Republican presidential nominee has built an entire campaign (let's be honest - it's his whole life) on bullying. The target of his mockery including, among others women, the disabled, our armed forces, Muslims, Mexicans and pretty much anyone else who is not white has been well documented. Twice now he has used the age-old bully buffoonery excuse of "just kidding" after encouraging the assassination of his Democratic opponent. His admiration for the "Global Bullies," one Vlad Putin of Russia and Kim Jung Un of North Korea, should be enough to disqualify him from the race for the U.S. presidency but it only seems to be fueling the madness. Like any good bully, the Republican presidential nominee has been terrifyingly efficient in silencing his cronies. Not a single leader of the GOP has had the testicular fortitude to stand up to him and say "Enough!" Their fear of the other side winning and let's face it, their misogyny (latent or otherwise), precludes them from standing up to their bully. It really is like something out of a bad teen high school dramedy except it's really happening.

In those bad high school movies and in the media in general, the bully usually gets what is coming to him or her as bullying is no respecter of gender. Nelson Muntz has been bullying the children of Springfield Elementary for nigh on twenty seven years now, but on more than one occasion, he's felt badly about his shenanigans and even shed a tear or two. He's even tried to change his ways. There's a lesson there.

One is a work of fiction.
One is unbelievable.
One occasionally feels badly about what he does.
One has zero remorse.
One is a school yard bully created by writers.
One chooses to be a school yard bully every day.
One, given the opportunity, would destroy the Kwik-E-Mart.
One, given the opportunity, may destroy the world as we know it.

To learn more about bullying and stopping it, see the following:

Stomp Out Bullying

Stop Bullying

The Bully Project

Do Something

Stand For The Silent

SaveSaveSaveSave

1000 Posts

Grand

K

dimes

Those are just three slangy ways to refer to the number 1000. That number, 1000, looms large in today's post because after 999 posts, this is the 1000th post here in the Den.

It's taken eight years to get here. I started  this little endeavor in December 2007. It allowed me to lament the weather in the greatest city in the United States, Chicago, and get indignant over the pimp mothering stylings of one Lynn Spears (she who spawned Britney). Lynn now looks absolutely angelic compared to she who has assumed that throne now and forever, the horrific Kris Kardashian. What a difference eight years make!

In those eight years, the makeup of the Den has changed. The son-in-law Awesome and two grandchildren have added to the headcount. We said goodbye to my father. The Den took up new digs in Connecticutistan. I've changed jobs three times in the ensuing years. There have been graduations, both high school and university, jobs, internships, and that little matter of TMFKATB's two-fer mission in Mexico and behind the Zion Curtain in the heart of Mormon Mecca, Salt Lake City. Whew! A lot has happened over the course of these past eight years.

I've overshared plenty in these 999 posts, too. And what lessons have been learned in all of that? Let's see: I was an awkward teenager. My wife, the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML, deserves a medal. I'm proud of my family. I've rarely met a meal I don't like. I don't recommend getting sick on a plane. I'm terrified by the prospect of a Trump presidency. And you most recently learned that running tights can kill.

At the core of all this foolishness is a love of storytelling. That's what the Den is. It's the story of the life I know and love. We all have a story to tell and I've enjoyed telling mine. I have appreciated the comments over the years. There's a couple of you that seem to like this, so I'm going to keep chugging along.

So I hope your comfortable here. Settle in and enjoy the read.

The parable of the running tights and the Jaws of Life

Where were these last night?

A parable is a simple story used to illustrate a moral or spiritual lesson. Who knew I'd be living my own...

As I got up yesterday morning, I knew I'd be running around a bit in advance of the arrival of #winterstormjonas. So I threw on a pair of my running tights as a base layer and went about my day. Little did I know that a clothing decision would becoming a teaching moment.

First, a comment on #winterstormjonas. Much like the awful Jonas Brothers band, for those of  us in this part of Connecticutistan, the storm was a flash in the pan and lacking in any kind of depth or punch. As I'd implied in an earlier post, the hysteria that preceded Jonas was completely over the top and unnecessary, also much like the screaming fans of the aforementioned Jonas Brothers, but I digress. Let's get back to the parable.

As I went throughout my day, my running pants were doing exactly what they were designed to do: keeping me warm and aerodynamic, if the occasion called for it. As information, it did not. It was pretty clear by noon that the storm was going to be a bust. I should have at that point gotten out of the pants but I chose not to. They were doing their job. I was warm, all was good. What I'd forgotten is that those pants are called tights for a reason and the longer you wear them, the tighter they become. It's subtle though. You don't realize that you're essentially choking out your lower extremities the longer you wear them, especially if you are lounging around (my Saturday afternoon downfall). After a casual dinner at the house with friends, it was time to call it a night and I began the simple task of losing the running tights. After more than 12 hours in them, there was going to be nothing simple about it. There was a struggle, and I mean a struggle, between me and the pants that ended with me stumbling to the ground in our closet, and me crying out to the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML, "I need the Jaws of Life! Get me the Jaws of Life! I'm never getting out of these things!" Suffice to say, we don't have a set of Jaws of Life laying around in our vast (and by vast I mean, two) collection of power tools. What I got from my wife was the sound of her laughter. That was enough to spurn me on and, after a wrestling match with myself (trust me when I tell you that is not going to be an Olympic event anytime soon), out of the death grip of those pants. Whew!

Waking up early this morning to go shovel snow at the church, I opted NOT to wear the tights again. While I was shoveling, I got to thinking about the stupid pants and the consequences, while not bad in the grand scheme of things, of my choice to wear them all day long. It got me thinking about the choices in general and what happens as a result. We've all long been taught that for every action, there is a reaction (think the classic one of choosing to put your hand on a hot stove as a toddler). When we make a choice, there will be a consequence, whether it be good or bad. Some, like the toddler and the stove, are very obvious. Then there are the ones like the running tights. It doesn't seem like a bad choice at all. You've had good experiences with them in the past, so what could go wrong? You get comfortable and don't realize the consequence that's occurring (in my case yesterday the subtle assault on my slightly over-extended waist line by scientifically engineered fabric). Before you know it, you're in trouble and you're fighting like mad to get yourself out of a mess. You do nutty things, like demand that the Jaws of Life be delivered to you post-haste to get you out of a situation of your own making. You eventually find a way out, or a solution, and quickly vow to never make the same choice again.

The question is - will you remember the lesson you've just learned? Or how quickly will you forget it? That's one of the things that I'm most grateful for in this life is that each day brings me the chance to choose more wisely than I did the day before. It's an enormous blessing for me.

So, as always my friends, learn from my mistakes (take the running tights off before it's too late)
Choose wisely.

Freedom of choice is more to be treasured

than any possession earth can give. ~ David O. McKay

Schooled. Courtesy of my 19 year old son.

He schooled me.

In his main letter (email) to the family that arrived early today, TMFKATB said the following, 'I miss all of you but things are smooth here.' That certainly wasn't all he said, but there's a certain degree of comfort that we take as his parents when he can say things are smooth. We take that to mean all is well.

In his stream-of-consciousness writing style, he also slipped in this gem: 'I also bought new pedals for my bike and put them on. It's nice having two pedals rather than just one.' Ya' think? This janky bike, of course, was the replacement bike for the one he wrecked last week. A+ for the initiative to move up to two pedals!

There wasn't a lot more from his main letter. More striking was his response directly to me that he sent after he read the letter I sent him. The stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and I send him separate letters each week, but after twenty seven years together, we continue to think more and more as one. Read our separately written, yet nearly identical weekly letters to TMFKATB. It's eerie.

Anyway, in my letter, I was lamenting the August doldrums and how pretty dull my life was right now. He was having none of it. In beautifully written Spanish, the son schooled his old man. He asked me the following:

Is there anything you haven't been doing that you need to be? (Insert dagger) It could be running or who knows. Maybe you just need something new. I would just make sure you use your free time well. Most of us are just on our phones. (Now twist dagger repeatedly) I know when I was bored back home I would go on my phone...that may be the trick. Who knows. Maybe meeting new people at work. Trying something new or going to a new place might work. Hopefully you get over this fast. You got this.

So there it is. TMFKATB for the win! Schooling his dad. The thing is that he is, of course, right.

I hate when that happens. Now I need to go put his lesson into action.

Speaking of lessons, here's why you might not want to down a handful of wildly tart blackberries:

Breaking (the) Bad

@marriageconfessions.com

When Our Lady Of Awesome was a toddler, she was very fond of her pacifier. It wasn't just something she had to have as she slept; it was something she had with her at all times. With visions of her sporting the teeth of one Cletus the Slack-Jawed Yokel, it was clear we needed to do something about her habit, or dare I say it, pacifier addiction. At the time, we were living in an apartment complex that now sits squarely in the slums of Mesa, AZ, and that place had an incredibly scenic view of the parking lot with an awe-inspiring vista of the trash collection area (jealous?). This was fantastic for Our Lady because she loved, loved, loved seeing the trash truck. When she heard that truck, everything and anything she was doing in her busy two year old world came to an immediate stop and she made her way to the window to see that truck. It was that truck that inspired the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML to break the pacifier habit for our first-born.

In a moment of weakness, Our Lady slept without any of her myriad pacifiers. This was the moment! SML grabbed them all and cut each one of them up. When Our Lady awoke, SML showed her the wreckage and explained that her pacifiers were broken and that they would need to go in the garbage, which meant the garbage truck would come and get them. This somehow made perfect sense in the mind of our two year old. The pacifiers were ceremoniously laid to rest in the garbage and then were given a fond farewell when the beloved garbage truck came by. That was it. The habit was broken with nary a tear, nor the teeth of a resident of an Alabama trailer park.

Fast forward twenty three years and Our Lady, now a mother herself, was facing the same vexing pacifier habit with her son. Unlike her, his pacifier habit was reserved to just sleep time, but with another baby on the way, she decided it was time to break his habit sooner rather than later. So earlier this week, she took the 'cold turkey' approach and simply took it away. How did the Grandson Awesome deal with it? Like a boss, that's how. He did not miss a beat and has slept like a champ since without it. He was pretty proud of himself, as evidenced in this photograph (a new pair of basketball shorts with pockets - he's OBSESSED with pockets - as a reward helped, too):

No tears..that's a cool wink

How this played out got me thinking about the habits that we all have that we know we should ditch. In the two examples I've shared, it would seem that it's fairly easy to break a habit, if you're two. Given that those of you who are bothering to read the Den are a little older than two, we know it's not quite that easy. Some of the bad habits we have may bring us significant pleasure (I'm looking at you, Shake Shack). Some may relieve stress and some may eventually kill us. And yet, we don't give them up. If only it was easy as cutting them up and tossing them in the garbage.

On bad habits, Benjamin Franklin is purported to have said,"It is easier to prevent bad habits than to break them." Some of you Luddites may argue that the world's ills can be blamed on Ben for his pesky kite and lightning electricity discovery, but you've can't argue with what he said there about habits.

Bob Gilbert said, "First we form habits, then they form us. Conquer your bad habits, or they'll eventually conquer you." Think about the times when that annoying bad habit you have has controlled the choices you've made. It rarely feels good, right? Typically, it's led to something regrettable.

I wish there was one magic formula to make breaking a bad habit easy, although based on the 'Self Help' section at your local bookstore, it's a cottage industry. It takes will power. It takes recognizing the need to change. It takes support. It takes knowing you may stumble along the way to getting rid of it and being willing to forgive yourself. It takes action.

Bad habits are easier to abandon today than tomorrow

Yiddish proverb

I certainly have my share of bad habits that need to go to the garbage, just like Our Lady of Awesome's pacifiers did all those years ago. But better to start the purge today than waiting until tomorrow.

July '85: When Tina Turner sang me through the gates of Heaven

Yes, I did think it was a sports car. 

The summer of 1985 found me preparing to embark on my LDS mission. I'd completed a year and half of study at the BYU and I was home for a couple of months, earning some mission cash. I was working again (I'd worked there during high school but I was no longer required to where the 'elf' outfit - let's not speak of it again) in a Scandinavian imports store in what was then Snottsdale Scottsdale's answer to Rodeo Drive (if Rodeo Drive were populated by Gilbert Ortega Indian jewelry outlets). I'd roll in to work on those summer mornings in my super sweet Honda Civic 1300FE, with the sounds of the B52s blaring from the cassette deck. If you're wondering what the "FE' stood for, it was not 'Ferrari Engineered. It was, wait for it, Fuel Economy. My teenage delusions led me to believe I was driving the coolest sports car ever. These were the same delusions that led me to a most unfortunate "Urban Cowboy" phase earlier in the 80's. You would have thought I would have learned a thing about delusions from that hideousness alone, but I did not.

While the B52s were my morning jam, my musical accompaniment on the way home was usually Tina Turner and her career restoring album, "Private Dancer." Even then, I was wickedly susceptible to ear worms and in the summer of '85, there was no escaping Tina. So on a hot July afternoon thirty years ago, I was on my way home from work, listening to Tina, with my open can of Pepsi (I know, I know, Pepsi. I was 18. Chalk it up to teenage foolishness) ensconced between my legs. That was what we called a cup holder in those days. Cars did not come with the pre-requisite 79 cup holders like they do today. We had to improvise.

As I was heading northbound towards an intersection, listening to Tina demand "Let's stay together," I noticed that the car heading westbound was going to blow through the stop sign that only the east and west bound drivers had. At that moment, everything slipped into that slow motion, suspended animation that any of you who have been in a car accident may recognize. Within seconds, this little Fiat convertible T-boned me in the passenger side of my car and sent my Civic spinning into the yard of one of the houses lining the street.

The force of the accident slammed me into my door, knocking me unconscious and causing some other fun, albeit minor injuries. Of course, I didn't know that. The force of the accident also slammed my legs together, causing the open can of Pepsi to explode like a volcano, covering me in its carbonated goo. As I began to come out of the blur, I couldn't, or wouldn't, open my eyes. I felt like I was covered head to toe in something wet (the aforementioned Pepsi) and all I could hear was the raspy voice of Tina Turner imploring that we stay together. It struck me as odd that she just kept saying, 'Let's stay together.' I thought because I couldn't open my eyes and wasn't feeling anything that I was dead and that Tina was the lead 'Welcome' songstress. This was an answer to prayers because I was really hoping that the chorus of heavenly angels would be a little more peppy than the Mo'Tab. I, at that point, was delighted with how things were turning out for a dead guy. I mean Tina Turner leading an angelic choir. I'd had a pretty awesome life up to that point. So if was the way I was going out, it was time to just wait for my name to be called or for someone to say, 'Go towards the light.'

And then, the pain kicked in and my eyes sprung open. I could no longer hear Tina. I heard sirens. I was not dead. Dang it. What followed was a delightful chat with the police and paramedics, including my refusal to be treated on scene because 18 year olds are invincible. I wasn't invincible as my visit to our family physician proved the following day. I was wrecked but I was in far better shape than my totaled car. For the car, it was fatal, but for Tina, not so much. I managed to pry the cassette out of the tape deck because priorities.

As the car was towed away a couple of days later to be parted out, a part of my youth went with it. It was time for me to grow up. I was leaving for a two year mission in what was then a matter of days. I had no idea what was ahead of me. The growth. The challenges. The tests. The joy.

I hear the first few notes of "Let's Stay Together" today and it's July 1985 all over again. It was the summer I straddled the line of adulthood with marginal success. It really did kick off my trip into adulthood. Thirty years later, I'm appreciative of the lessons of that summer.

And I'm still hoping that when it is my time, Tina is there to sing me in.

Contrasts

A little different look than last week's hospital bed 

After last week's 'View from a Clinica Bed' update, we were, once again, anxiously awaiting TMFKATB's Monday missive. It dawned on me that, thanks to the switch to Daylight Savings' over the weekend, he is now two hours behind us and we'd hear from him an hour later. Well, that proved to be true. It was an hour later than normal once his letter arrived and it was worth the wait. To say that it was a study in contrasts from last week would be understating it. He kicked it off by saying, "so this was an awesome week." And with that you may have heard the sigh of relief that the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML let out simultaneously. It may or may not have knocked down one of our trees. Clearly whatever he was given during his stay in the clinica did the trick. He reported that health-wise he'd had a great week. He also shared several stories of how he saw his faith building and seeing the rewards that come from working hard on behalf of others. He got to see some people he'd taught previously and had a sweet reunion with them. He made his way into what he called "Jurassic Park" to meet with some other people.

I marvel at the experiences he is having. We can see him changing and growing in ways that will benefit him the rest of his life. Over the years here in the Den, I've shared proof of how everything TMFKATB touches turns to gold. Everything. It hasn't been that way for him in Mexico. He's learned, and will continue to learn, that life can be a series of surprises, good and bad, wanted and unwanted, and that how you react to them defines who you are.

"Entering Jurassic Park"

It's a privilege to get to watch this. As parents, you try and prepare your children for all that life may throw at them. I've realized that's just not possible. I'm glad he's learning what he is in this most unique environment that he finds himself in now. He's where he is for a reason - well, lots of them. It's all good.

A quick note of thanks to all who checked in with us after seeing the picture of him in the clinica last week. He continues to mention that he feels the power of prayer. And so do we. Thank you, friends.

Will I Ever Learn?

Our inability to remember important life lessons never ceases to amaze me and it was demonstrated to me in the clearest of light last night. Sometimes these moments can take a little while to relate. This is a little bit longer post, so settle in.

It was a long day in Manhattan yesterday, exacerbated by lightly falling snow, a snappy, and not in a good way either, chill in the air, and an unpleasant slog down to endlessly depressing Penn Station at the end of the day to catch some "Theater of Cruelty" service at the hands of our national passenger rail provider. You'll be shocked, shocked I tell you, to know that my train was, wait for it, late in departing. I know, I know, talk about unexpected (and if you believe that, I'm sure Fox News' assessment that the metric system brought down Air Asia #8501 is completely plausible). A late departure meant making my connection in New Haven was going to be dicey as that connection is, in my sad experience, mostly NOT held for the late inbound train. With that in mind, I was sure I was ready to bounce off the train as soon as we hit New Haven so I could bound across the platform and get on my connecting train, assuming it was still there.

As we approached New Haven, my plan was thwarted by a young woman who stood in the aisle blocking the rest of us from moving toward the door. She wasn't budging. My patience was immediately sapped and my alter ego, Judgy Judgerson, made an appearance. Unkind thoughts, yes, let's describe them as that, filled my mind as I waited for her to pick up her bag and move. She did not do so until we came to a complete stop, which was maddening (um, lady, it's a train - no flight attendant was going to shout you down for getting out of your seat before coming to a complete stop). She began to shuffle slowly while those ahead of her were long gone. My displeasure was at 11. And then it happened. I noticed she was moving slowly because of an awkward gait, and with her hand atrophied, I recognized it immediately as some kind of palsy and knew then that my reservation in Hell was now a lock. As she got to the door of the train and seeing the wider than expected gap, she asked me if I could spot her. Feeling sufficiently and rightfully awful, I told her I would do her one better. I grabbed her bag and went out the adjacent door so I could take her by both arms and help her across. That's what I did and I asked her if she needed anything else and she said no. So I made my way across the platform, noticing only then that the connecting train was also late (I know you're stunned). It showed up shortly thereafter and I sat down in a window seat to ponder why I had gotten so irritated so quickly.

As I sat lost in my thoughts, I heard a woman ask if she the seat next to me was open. Turning to say yes, I saw that it was that same young woman. Certainly, I said. She took her seat and we were off. About midway through the trip, she got up to use the restroom (her funeral). I know this because she told the person that she was talking to on her cell phone that is what she was going to do. While she was gone, another woman stood in aisle across from our seats, prattling on to the lady seated there about her failing business. This was 'delightful' banter that none of us needed to hear. None. Of. Us. She would not move as my seatmate came up and just as she approached our row, the train swerved as it is wont to do, and this poor young woman was flipped over the seats, landing with her head wedged between the seat in front of me and the front of my knees. For a split second, I hardly knew what to do. She immediately began apologizing and I kept telling her she had nothing to apologize for. It was apparent though as I tried to move, she was pretty stuck. Another passenger got up, pushing aside the rude woman who was still prattling on about her retail woes and seeming annoyed that this turn of events had interrupted her story, and he managed to get my stuck seatmate by her good arm and as he lifted, I pushed up and we got her up. She could not have been more apologetic. I know she had to be absolutely mortified. I kept reassuring her that she had nothing to worry about.

She sat quietly for the rest of the ride, as did I. All the while, I kept pondering my initial reaction to her on the other train. As we approached Hartford, I asked her if she'd been to this particular station before and she said no. Knowing that this station is not a walk off to the platform, but requires descending the steep steps from the train, I told her I'd like to help her off. I took her bag and guided her to the end of the car. When she saw the steps, she took a deep breath but fortunately, a conductor was there as well to help her. I then walked with her to the elevator and it was there that we parted ways. She apologized once more, for which I once again said there was no need and she slipped away with a simple thank you. That thank you was when i will long appreciate.

As I drove home, I thought about had she heard the thoughts in my head on that first train, she never would have sat down next to me on that connecting train. I wouldn't have had the opportunity to help her out and try and make up for an offense she wasn't even aware I had committed. About thirty years ago, while on my mission in Miami, I had an experience with another young woman afflicted with a palsy who I judged too quickly, and just as wrongly as I had done last night. I learned all those years ago how so not cool that 'Judgy Judgerson' side of me is.

You'd think at my age I'd have learned to reign him in. Last night showed me I still have some learning to do. I hope I won't forget this experience any time soon.