Engaged... In A Good Cause.

We were fourth in line, waiting for the stoplight to turn green. The air conditioner blew cool air while the sun beat down on the black asfault outside. Horns blared as they always do when red lights last too long in Puerto Rico. Behind us was another car of missionaries. We were in San Juan to attend a fireside with the visiting General Authority.

And then it happened.

Suddenly, the passenger door of one of the cars ahead of us pops open. Out jumps a woman that resembles Humpty Dumpty with her round body and little stick arms and legs. As she runs down the row of cars, it is as if she is running in high heels. Her tight black curls bounce up and down with each hurried step. I can almost hear the scraping heels on the road. She is frantic, but frantic for what?

As she nears our car, my eyes move to the hood of the car; under the impression that if I do not make eye contact or move, she can not see me. It is all in vain, however, because soon after averting my eyes there comes a frantic tap at the window. My window. Taking in a deep breath, I turn my head to make eye contact and smile awkwardly at the stranger. She is crying and mumbling to herself. Something is wrong. This woman is not normal. My companion rolls down my window... Warm summer air fills the car.

Before I know what is going on, the woman has reached inside our car, grabbed my hand and shoved a ring in it. I sit there. Frozen. What just happened? Why is there a diamond ring in my hand? Click. Reaching out the window, I grab her hand and shove the ring in it. She begins crying with a newly sparked enthusiasm. Who is this woman? As if she had expected me to return the ring, her arms bolt back into our car with renewed strength and she has my hand again. This time, however, she shoves the ring right onto my finger and continues holding my hand while sobbing out, "For you. Forever. For you. Forever..." Why me?

Before I have time to figure out what to do, she releases my hand and bounces back to her car. The only thing missing is the scraping of high heeled shoes. My companion and I look at each other, not sure what to do. The driver of Ms. Humpty Dumpty's car now exits her car and hurries towards our car. Following suit, I get out and walk towards her. She demands the ring and I hand it over without argument. We both walk back to our cars and get in. Then the light turns green and life continues as if nothing ever happened.

Growing Up.

Growing up. I remember those days.

Free room and board. Free clothes. Free food. Presents all year round. Dates funded by parents.

My concept of working for what I had included doing my homework and getting good grades in school. After all, good grades pay the rent right? Wrong. But you see, that is something I didn't fully understand. Over and over in school I heard, "Get a job and save money for college." In church I heard, "Save money for your mission." But somehow, all of that was abstract to me. My parents had given me everything I had and they would continue to do so as long as I kept up an over-average GPA…

The summer after graduating high school I signed up for my first job; if you can even call it that. My former junior high teacher was building a house and she needed someone to paint her greenhouse. Not even the house! I didn't even paint the house! I painted the greenhouse! And boy did I think that job was hard! Standing on the ladder all day. Getting paint all over myself under the heat of the summer sun. Listening to country radio for hours on end. Occasionally whipping out the weed eater to thwart off the encroaching weeds. Now this was a hard job. Or so it seemed to be at the time.

After a few weeks of that, it came time to enter the ranks of the students at Brigham Young University. I thought painting all day in the sun was hard? Hah! Now I was taking a whopping fourteen credit hours! Not only that, but I started my job at the on-campus food court at six hours a week to support my weekend activities while Mom and Dad funded everything else. Now I was in the ranks of the big boys! Right?

Well, then came my mission. "Now Brett, how will you be funding your mission?," my Bishop asked me in my interview. Um… I did well at BYU and good grades pay the bills! Wait… That doesn't work. Oh, I worked six hours a week out at BYU. I had to have plenty in savings! Wrong. How would I pay for my mission? Suddenly the assumption that Mom and Dad will pay didn't come so easily. I mean, sure they would do it. But this is big money we're talking about! Could I really just expect them to pay for it? And then out of the blue came blessings from Heaven. Someone offered to pay for my mission in its entirety. Phew, that was a close one...

Now my way of thinking has changed a little since then. In fact, I don't know if I can say I did much thinking back then. Everyone has their own expenses to pay. Especially my parents. Now they have continued offering an incredibly large financial aide when ever needed, but I cannot simply just expect them to pay for everything for me anymore. Soon I'll have my own family to support. How soon I don't know, but that's not the point. The point is, I still have some growing up to do!

Beginning Anew

Laughter escaped my lips as I strolled through old blog entries. Blogging had once been a large part of my life and now I had returned to the long lost memories that had been recorded years before. Man I was funny! What had happened to me?

In an attempt to rediscover myself as a writer, I will now be starting a new chapter in my blogging career. Stay tuned for hilarious new additions.