Call Me

I love the Mormon religion.  Honestly.  I can't find one thing about it that I don't appreciate.  Mormon culture, however, is a different story.  Mormon culture bugs me.  A lot.

Case in point:

Everyone cries at church.  Not everyone, I guess, just the women.  I recall several instances as a very young girl that my older brothers or sister would tell me that my poor behavior was making people cry.  I would look up at the podium, usually at a crying woman on the other end, and feel bad about my hyperactivity in the pews....  But I never really cared enough to stop whatever it was that I was doing.

Throughout the years, I've heard a lot of the same recycled stories, with a few details changed to match personal circumstances, told over the pulpit.  One of these stories is as follows:  I was having such a hard week.  First [insert mishap here].  Then, [insert second mishap].  Finally, [insert worst and over-exaggerated mishap here].  I was so overwhelmed.  Finally, I prayed to God that someone would come and help me.  In only [insert short amount of time here], I heard my doorbell ring.  [Insert name here] was at my door to give me [insert magic solution to every mentioned problem here].  That's how I know that God loves me."

...Don't get me wrong.  I'm not saying that God can't work like that.  I believe that many prayers have been answered through the actions of people.  I'm not saying that people who have had experiences like this are bad people.  I am saying that I'm sick of hearing this story.  Mostly because it's never happened to me, and I'm maybe (probably) a little bit jealous.

I've had days like that before.  Days where everything goes wrong.  Days like this:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RnYW6YH_8w4

A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Yesterday was like that for me.  My house was a mess.  Work projects keep piling up.  (And, by the way, Colorado teachers now receive mandated evaluations based on not only their own, but also on their students' performances.)  Money is tight.  I couldn't put off working in the backyard anymore.  I could handle it, though, until the lawnmower broke.  Really broke this time.  Not just a quick "check the oil and gas" problem.  If I desperately needed to, I suppose I could buy another lawnmower, but I'd only be able to eat nothing but Ramen for the next three months.  That's still not the issue, though.  This lawnmower belonged to my late Gramps.  In a bizarre kind of way, I'd feel closer to him whenever I mowed my lawn with his mower.  Yes, I could buy a new mower... but not one that used to belong to him.  As we approach the anniversary of his death, I find it even more difficult to cope with something as silly as a broken yard tool.

As soon as I realized that it was beyond my ability to fix the mower, I calmly placed it back in the garage and went inside.  I took a shower, ate some dinner, watched some TV, and then I went into my room and sobbed.  I'm very hard on myself that way, I guess.  When I remembered that I still have Gramps' old art supplies, I felt a little better, but not much.

It was in that moment that I so desperately wanted all of these "so I prayed and someone came" stories to be true.  As is usually the case when I'm crying, I found myself on my knees, calling on God to help me.  Usually these kinds of prayers go something like this, "Please, Heavenly Father, I can't do this on my own anymore.  I need help.  Help from anyone will do.  I just need someone to call me.  Please, have someone call me so that I can feel better.  Please, tell them to tell me that everything will be OK."

Well, as has always been the case, help never comes-- at least not in the instant way that I want it to.  No one has showed up at my door or called me.  I've gotten better at asking for help, because it never comes otherwise.  (Except help from family, but that's different.)  At any rate, I find that God has a way of tugging at my heart and, whenever He finds me praying as such, He finds a way to tell me (in a kind and loving way), "I'm sorry you're sad, but I made you strong enough to fix this problem on your own.  It's not as big a problem as you're making it out to be.  There are others, though, who are offering similar prayers right now.  Call them.  Visit them.  Help them."

Usually a person or a family will pop into my mind for whom I've neglected to care.  I usually feel guilty, but I'm getting better at forgiving myself.  If it's not too late, I find myself calling or visiting someone else who, I usually find, has it worse off than me.  Once I've helped as best I can, I find that my setbacks are much easier to handle.  In a way, helping others becomes the answer to my prayers as I work out my own problems with a clearer perspective.

I guess the point is, too many people I know (Mormons in particular) wait around for their prayers to be answered.  They expect God to do all the work.  That's not how it should be, I think.  Instead, I just wish people could be actively involved in taking care of each other.  That way I wouldn't have to cry into my pillow waiting for someone to call me.  That way others wouldn't have to cry into their pillows (assuming other people do that too) waiting for me to call or visit them.

I look ahead sometimes, and I know that difficult circumstances are in the forecast.  I know that I'll be facing many of these difficult circumstances on my own.  These are experiences, though, that I wouldn't trade.  There are certainly times when I just wish someone would come to my door and hug me, tell me how brave I've been, and then go about solving my problems.  I know this won't ever happen (unless my Mom is reading this, then it might).  Not for me anyway.  However, I can always hope to be the person who shows up at the door of someone else, gives them a hug, tells them how brave they've been, and then goes about solving all their problems.

If that's what you need, then call me.