If iphones could talk... PROMPT

I have the immeasurable privilege of meeting twice a month with a writer's group. There are four of us ladies and we are searching for a great name for our group. Suggestions welcome. However, that is not the point of this post.

Each time we meet, we start off with a prompt. We then furiously scratch away for 10 minutes and then share what we wrote with each other. Sometimes they are silly, sometimes they are thought provoking. Sometimes they whet the literary appetite for an entire story to follow.

I thought I'd share some of the prompts I've written over the last two years. Now, keep in mind we are given these prompts cold and have only ten minutes. I have tried to correct grammar, but other than that, I've left the story as is. So, while this is not a New Years Resolution, I am trying to resurrect this blog just to put myself out there a bit more and declare: Yes, I am a writer.

Jan. 12, 2012

Prompt: A Christmas gift that you have wanted for a long time is finally yours. You put it away at the end of the day, and to your astonishment, it talks to you....

My response:

I finally decided to turn off my new iphone. Well, not turn it off, but plug it in to its charger and let it rest and get enough energy to deal with my insatiable desire for surfing the app store, playing words with friends, and texting.

For years my husband had told me to get a smart phone, that life would be easier with it. I'd shoved his sweet intentions away on basis of cost and necessity. Always the practical, responsible one. But, every marriage needs one. But, for Christmas, he had gotten me one and I had been too delighted to muster a complaint.

I got out of bed and plugged my phone into the wall charger. A soft ting confirmed it had landed. Then, I climbed back into bed, a smile on my face, and whispered, "Good night iphone."

"Good night, Jennie." came a husky, robotic voice in reply. My heart lurched out of my body before my mind could follow.

"Who's there?" I winced. I looked over at my husband's sleeping form to see if he was pranking me. He answered with a steady snore.

"iphone?"

"Yes?" The same voice answered. I looked over to where I had plugged it in.

"Can you hear me?" Trepidation in every syllable.

"Yes."

A sudden realization. "Is this Siri?" The newest iphones came with a lady's voice programmed to answer any question you might have. "This is Siri, right?"

"No, I'm not Siri. Siri can only respond when you touch her microphone button. I am your iphone. I've come to tell you an important message before you get so carried away with me that you wile away your life."

"I don't... um... are you alive?" Was I awake?

"No, I'm not alive. I'm your iphone. Now, do you want the message?"

"Um... sure, I guess."

"As long as you own me, I'll be monitoring your time, your thoughts, your words, and your deeds. And, at the last day, at the final judgment, I'll be there, ready with my report of your life. So, use me wisely."

Within minutes, the only apps on my iphone I still had were the gospel library, LDS tools, and the Mormon Channel.

A singular meal

“Good evening,” he said, a lilting accent giving away his foreign upbringing. “And welcome to Palo.”

We returned his smile, offering thanks.

“Is this your first time here with us?” He adjusted my husband’s seat.

Was this our first time? Most definitely. No, we had not dined in the exclusive adult-only five-star restaurant on top of a 14-story Disney cruise ship at night while docked in the beautiful and balmy harbor of Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. Our friends, Ward and Lisa, were also first timers along with us. We were just over half-way through our week-long dream vacation. Our kids were five stories below us, being served dinner at our regular table in the Parrot Cay, a wonderful restaurant on its own.

“Yes,” we answered, not caring if it was obvious how much we were enjoying everything about our present surroundings.

He knew our names. Once he determined which one of the men was Dave Blaser, who had made the reservation, he welcomed us all by name. Just another simple layer of Disney courtesy.

“My name is Nikola,” he said as he poured Mickey tap water into my glass (we had opted out of the Evian bottled water at $5.00 each). I shifted my gaze to read below his name tag to find out what country he was from. Serbia.

“Kako ste?” I blurted out, spouting the only Serbian I could recall. During my mission, almost half a lifetime ago, I had known a fair amount of Serbian, and could have carried on a decent conversation. Most of that knowledge had now fallen through the cracks of life, making room for more critical information like what bribes worked to get your daughter to practice the piano, and how to do seven loads of laundry on the side of an otherwise crazy day.

“Dobro,” he answered automatically. It took a second longer for him to realize I had just spoken in his native tongue. “Do you speak Serbian?”

“No.” I racked my brain for any more Serbian. How do you say “I lived in Slovenia?” I couldn’t pull it out. “Zivi en Slovenija.” I said, mixing bad Slovene grammer with a random Spanish article thrown in for added confusion. What?

But, he understood. The verb, ‘Ziveti‘ meant ‘to live‘ and the root was similar enough to Serbian. We exchanged a few more pleasantries about that area of the world, thankfully in English. This additional rapport was just another magical coating on our evening. It is a small world after all.

The entire night was marvelous. No, a three-syllable word does not do it justice. Sensational. Incredible. {Insert brilliant-sounding five or six-syllable word here.}

We started off with an entire antipasto bar, rolled directly to our table where Nikola doled out almost transparent slices of prosciutto, plump artichoke hearts, and parmesan cheese that had aged for over eight years, all drizzled with garlic-infused, hand-pressed olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Fresh, warm italian bread accompanied it.

The next course was soups and salads. The caprese salad had a beautiful twist. A perfectly ripe tomato, halved and peeled, adorned with generous wedges of mozzarella cheese amid a plate decorated with basil and oil mixed together and drizzled in the shape of a large tree branch. It was almost too appealing to touch, but one-bite did the trick, and soon Nikola was clearing out plates to make room for the margarita and quattro formaggi pizzas we had ordered. The thin-crusted margarita was perfectly italian. Crunchy crust, obviously cooked in a brick oven. Thin tomato-based sauce dripped off the ends of each piece, staunched occasionally by a stray basil leaf or a slice of mozzarella still trying to melt.

I was starting to get full. Our entrees hadn’t even arrived. I forced myself to abandon the second slice of tempting pizza. The conversation never got dull. When we weren’t whimpering in delight over each bite of whatever we were consuming, we were discussing our next possible vacations together. This was just the beginning for our families. We each had three children. Same ages. Same genders. It was ideal.

Nikola timed our entrees to perfection. My sea bass was a work of art. With each bite, butter and lemon exploded into my mouth and the flesh of the fish simply melted onto my tongue. We exchanged bites around the table so everyone could taste everything.

“You’ve got to try this” should be Palo’s catchphrase. We all must have said it a dozen times that evening.

Long before our entrees had even arrived, Nikola asked us if we wanted to try the specialty dessert: The Chocolate Souffle. And, yes, all three of those words deserve their capitals. It took just under a half an hour to cook one, so if we wanted them, we needed to get the order in then. We had been prepared. We had been told, no, almost commanded, that The Chocolate Souffle was a must at Palo. Essential.

Enough time had passed since our entree platters had been removed to just tickle the tops of our appetites. Though, even if we had been truly full, we were quickly becoming experts at eating more-than-generous portions.

With flair, Nikola adjusted a thin rolling cart containing our desserts near our table. On top sat four rectangular white plates. Each was centered with a white ramekin overflowing with The Chocolate Souffle. On one side, two miniature pitchers held vanilla bean and chocolate sauces. On the other side, a perfectly round sphere of vanilla gelato floated on a ceramic resting spoon. Steam emanated seductively from the ramekin.

After presenting us each with our platters, he removed Dave’s plate to use for demonstrative purposes. With the fork tines away from him, he gently prodded a small opening in the top of the souffle. Mist stole its way out in a puff. He picked up the vanilla bean sauce and pour an ounce into the hole. The entire souffle responded with a sultry bulge.

We all smiled in our own sinful anticipation of what was about to come. I gently poked a hole along the cracked lines in the surface of my souffle. Poof. A pocket of bottle fog crept out. I couldn’t decide which sauce to apply first. So, I chose both. I raised my small silver spoon and penetrated the opening I had created. Ecru cream poured out of the small container and was quickly swallowed up by the darkness inside. Milk-chocolate sauce followed and my spoon grappled around for a perfect mixture of vanilla bean, chocolate sauce, and chocolate souffle. I pulled it out with a perfect, delectable mass.

I blew on it slightly, looking up to see all three of my dinner companions doing the same. We shared a silly smile. Kids in a candy shop had nothing on us. And then...

Mmmm. How can something be crumbly and so moist at the same time? I swirled the sodden morsels around in my mouth, absorbing each burst of flavor. No need to say, “You have to try this” to anyone now. We were all equally drawn up in food euphoria.

Over the next too-rapidly passing ten minutes, we sat enjoying our souffles. I relished in each bite, pouring more sauce intermittently. Eating each bite slower than a bank teller returning to the long line of customers after her ill-timed break. It was simply sumptuous.

With each swallow, I tried to capture the entire essence of the evening. That day had been one of the best so far. We had started out eating breakfast with Mickey, Minnie and all their friends. We had gone for an amazing catamaran ride out to a secluded bay to snorkel. The ride back to the boat had been a highlight. All six kids were laughing on the catamaran ride back. Lying on their stomachs on the stiff netting watching the waves splash up all around us. Standing up surfing and trying not to get knocked over when we hit a particularly large swell. The sun beating down on our skin, warming us; the perfect contrast to the wind in our hair. Upbeat music blasting from the ship’s stereo. Now, we were all showered, and dressed up to the nines. Our children, who had been fed and taken care of by other people, were now all comfortably watching Cars 2 in 3D in the huge theater seven stories below us. The view was a dark, lulling ocean and blinking harbor lights. I had seen a sign that afternoon that read, “There is a better life out there, it just costs more.” I had laughed at the time, but I felt I knew what it meant. This moment. This was what it meant.

And, suddenly, I didn’t want it to end. I looked down at my souffle, and even though I was absolutely full, I wouldn’t not have eaten the last bite even if I had room. I had to save it for later. To let it linger in my memory. To know that it was still there, unfinished, waiting for me. Waiting for the next time.

A Memory of my Mother

This is a quick memory I wrote, originally for Mother's day to my Mom. I finally finished it two months later. Happy Mother's day Mom. What are some memories you have of something your mother did that still stays with you today?

_______________________________________________________

The wind whispered to the trees, who answered with a disagreeable shake, covering me with a fresh coating of snow. Even though it wasn’t snowing, I was laden down and soaking wet, with each new gust reaching deeper inside me. I was beginning to rethink my decision to walk my best friend home, now that I had accomplished the task and had only my breath as companion. But, I hadn’t been ready to part ways when it was time, so I waved to my siblings and told them I’d take the long way home. An impetuous decision, given the weather, but done in the name of fourth-grade friendship.

Just a few more houses, and I’d crest the big hill. It would be the perfect sledding hill, were it not for the unfortunate fact that it was a busy road. I precariously placed each moon boot down as close to the sweeping drifts and plow leftovers as I dared. The sidewalks wouldn’t be visible or approachable for months. With each passing car, I turtled into my coat and held up my arms against the residual flurry, berating myself once again for forgetting my scarf. It now fruitlessly warmed the brick-colored tiles on the floor of the school coat room. A few more cars passed. A few more houses. I peeked out of my cocoon. Almost. Almost. There it is. Our street. Home.

Knowing what awaited me kept me going. I would have smiled in anticipation if I hadn’t thought my cheeks would break from the effort. I knew my mom would be waiting for me. And not just waiting. I knew she would have a warm, comforting snack. She’d help me off with my stiff gloves and thick coat. She’d rub my arms down to warm me up. How many cold days had I walked home? How many times had my boots crunched through snow to and from school? Other than my solitude, this one was no different.

Yet.

Decades later, I remember this particular walk. The grey skies were streaked with colors that pointlessly fought to be blue. It wasn’t because it was specifically colder than any other day. It was the warmth of the knowledge that my mother would be home, waiting for me, that engraved the memory of that walk home deep in my soul. How sure I was of that fact. I was more certain of her presence, waiting with a warm snack just for me, than I was that the sun would rise the next day.

And I was not wrong. Trudging up our driveway that would need to be shoveled once again, I almost broke into a run to prove to any wayward doubts that my mom was there. Immediately after entering through our garage, I shook off the last layer of snow and stomped my way inside. My mother was there in seconds, helping remove my hat, gloves and coat. I couldn’t help it. I smiled. For no apparent reason. Yet, I knew why. As my nose begin to thaw, I smelled it. Hot chocolate.

My siblings were scattered up and down the counter, hands surrounding their individual, steaming mugs. Content. I quickly joined them and their conversations, warming my soul with words and delicious drink. It was most likely hot carob, now that I think of it, but as a child, I honestly didn’t know the difference.

The rest of that day, and the majority of my childhood has since blurred into scenes of unspecific happiness. But the feelings of cold, tempered by the sweet knowledge of security live on. What a gift to have a mother waiting for us each day as we came home. What a gift.

I now live in the Valley of the Sun, where snow is so rare that the very rumor of it escalates into prime time news. So, I greet my kids as they ride home on their bikes and scooters with popsicles. Neon green, deep purple and some shade of orange that looks like the over processed tangelos in the store. We sit up to the table, where the ceiling fan is whirring away, as they plop their backpacks on the floor and kick off their flip flops, declaring this to be the hottest day yet. We lounge around licking and talking as they recount the wonders of their day. I may not be quite like my mom, in any regards, but in this one aspect I hope I’ve learned from her. What a gift to be at home. Waiting for my children each day. Waiting with open arms... and a snack.

Talents

Last week, the Relief Society teacher in my ward asked if I'd share a few words about developing talents. She also asked if I'd share something I had written. I was really hesitant at first, then decided it was too hypocritical to get up and talk about how I've been trying to develop and grow a talent as a writer and not be willing to share, so this is what I wrote: Enjoy.

As a teenager, my paternal grandfather laid his withered hands on my head and softly uttered my Patriarchal blessing. In it, he specifically advised me to ponder the parable of the talents. For years, I would pray extra hard before reading that section of Matthew, half-expecting a secret word to appear in the margins or an esoteric pattern to emerge containing the secret to my life. I soon wearied of not finding answers between the lines and resorted to resting my thoughts on the parable every few months, after a lesson on Talents. Always questioning myself. Which character was I? Did I have five talents? Two? One? and a dusty one at that? As life has wizened me up some, I’ve realized I am all three.

I am the wicked and slothful servant, too embarrassed to even keep a talent in my pocket, to gingerly jingle occasionally as a reminder of what I’d been given. Instead, I throw it down a deep ditch, away from sight. As a child, I loved to write. But, I excelled at Math. And, in a world where early on we must declare ourselves either a numbers nerd or a lover of the arts, I followed the yellow brick road of A’s to a degree in Finance, burying my love of words deeper and deeper along the way.

Then, two years ago I took a risk. Some friends had started a writer’s group and I got out my proverbial shovel and asked if I could come to one of their meetings. And then, then I did something even more daring. I asked if I could come back! And I haven’t missed a meeting since. Over the last two years we have shared the silly and the saintly, laughing and crying, always to the tune of some delicious refreshment, of course. (We are proper Mormon girls).

Word by living word, I have cautiously, painfully, and sometimes by the shovelful, dug out my buried talent. It is starting to live again. Breathe. I sculpt it as best I know how. Realizing I am giving life to my thoughts, so safely tucked inside my head before. Allowing for hurt, shame, and rejection and calling it ‘pruning’.

I am also the servant given two talents, so prone to stare into the deadly mirror of comparison. Two vs. five, always coming up short. Only when gratitude appears do I get to work improving what I’ve been given.

And then, I am the servant given five talents. But, life sometimes requires different talents than those naturally given. My original five did not include a very nurturing spirit, a natural affinity towards motherhood, a love of cleaning or an ability to Betty Crocker my way through whatever is in the fridge. So, I’ve put my five talents to work, trading, earning, learning, gaining new albeit, not-so-natural, talents. Because, in the end, it will not matter whether the talents were given or earned, the Savior will not distinguish. Yes, at that day He will say, “Well done. You have stretched until it stung, you have blessed others until you broke. Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy Lord. (Matthew 25:21).

Facebook

Inhaling gingerly, I squinted my eyes and braced myself as I answered, “I read it on Facebook.”

“Oh, thank goodness for Facebook!” my husband said, sarcasm dripping like an ice-cream cone in the hands of a two-year old. “How would we ever learn anything worth knowing without Facebook!”

I could almost feel his eyes rolling, even though he was in the next room.

Later on, as I tried to find the shut down button on my brain’s computer so I could sleep, I thought about what he had said, sarcasm notwithstanding. I could learn a good week’s worth of information from Facebook in the time it took me to eat my morning bowl of yogurt and granola. Just that day, I had found out my little sister was scheduled the next day for an induction on her seventh baby. And, I didn’t find out from her. It was my cousin who was posting on her wall, wishing her good luck.

I got over 60 birthday wishes last year on my birthday. Sixty! I’d have to celebrate a decade of birthdays in my life before Facebook to receive that many different wishes! I schedule my visiting teaching appointments through Facebook, remind our babysitter when we’ll be picking her up, find out which friends are pregnant, and catch up on everyone’s lives.

But, it’s not just about reconnecting with friends, it’s about connecting in general. From the comfort of my not-so-comfortable chair, I can talk, at my own leisure, about current events, weather woes, health issues, and parenting tips with people who have been a part of my life over almost four decades and just as many continents.

It’s not a perfect social world. I still prefer face-to-face interaction. But, I don’t have to put on makeup or even wear a bra to get on Facebook. I can play the game of social banter, coming up with witty posts, commenting as cleverly as I can, and racking up points. But, first, I have to go to the bathroom.

Thirty percent of women read Facebook before they go to the bathroom in the morning. It’s true.

I read it on Facebook.

Giant Green Gumdrops

Giant Green Gumdrops

Someone must have opened a window upstairs. A cool breeze tiptoed down as I rocked back and forth, back and forth; my eyes, fixated on the television. Our parents had projects going on, resulting in the unlocking of the TV. We were watching wonderful summer re-runs of “The Greatest American Hero”. Outside, one stalwart sprinkler held its course. Krrsh. Krrsh. Krrsh. Krrsh. Ratatatatatat. Krrsh. Krrsh. Krrsh. Opening up my delectable bag of giant gumdrops, I peered inside, inhaling the sugar that had fallen off from rumbling around. Dad had gone to a hardware store that morning for his project. I had a handful of change currently not doing me any good. A hardware store is as good a place as any to spend hard-earned nickels and dimes. Especially when they sell gumdrops.

It was the summer of 1986 and I was working hard on 13. My two little sisters had given up trying to get me to share my goodies and were content to watch a curly-haired thirty-something in tights jump around and fly, trying to save the world in his own quirky way. Back and forth, back and forth I rocked. Not going anywhere, but not really trying.

I heard my mom switch a load of laundry and the successive whir of the dryer kick on. I reached my fingers into my stash and pulled out a perfectly-shaped green gumdrop. It was a nice, appealing sort of green, sharing a shade with baby snow peas and spring leaves. Determined to suck the marrow out of each piece, I slowly stuck it in my mouth and willed myself not to bite it. I was going to dissolve each delightful sugar granule with my tongue. Back and forth I rocked, sucking patiently at the gelatinous glob, enjoying it in slow motion. Then, just as I achieved total smoothness, my giant green gumdrop turned and slipped down my throat, coned-side down, lodging perfectly in my esophagus.

Every nerve in my body spiraled into high alert. Clear, urgent alarms coursed through me. I silently tried to cough, but couldn’t make even the smallest movement to the gumdrop. Help! I jumped off the chair, amazed that my body could still function properly when everything was awry. I had learned about the Heimlich maneuver in school through a cheesy video. I knew the international sign of choking was to cross your hands, palms out, facing yourself, overlapping your thumbs and bringing it all up across your neck. I knew that, but did my little sisters? Hopefully. I vaulted myself in between them and the television and quickly made the international choking sign, the distress more than evident in my eyes.

Both my sisters started yelling at me. Viki asked if I was choking. When I fervently and desperately nodded, she bolted out of her chair and ran screaming and shouting upstairs to my parents. Emily’s reaction was slightly different. She yelled at me too, but she said, “Get out of the way, you’re blocking the TV!”

I actually moved out of her way, realizing quickly she was too young to understand what was really going on. My life was suddenly and blaringly too short to hold on to blame.

Everything became very defined, as if blocking the oxygen from my brain was like turning the lens and focusing my understanding into stark detail. I understood perfectly that I had about a minute to live as I knew it. I did not want to die. I did not think I was going to die. But, I knew something had to change to my existing circumstances or I was going to die. My memories quickly scanned through the images of the video. There was an overweight, bald man who was choking on a chicken bone in a restaurant. Too proud to get help, he went to the bathroom and subsequently died. A lady with feathered hair showed the correct position and instigation of the maneuver on a dummy. They showed her shove in slow motion over and over from various angles. A man, living alone, used the end cap of a stair rail to dislodge something caught in his throat. A disembodied deep voice warned against ever doing the Heimlich maneuver on yourself as you could become seriously injured. It was a means of last resort. Only to be done if desperate.

Was I desperate? Only a second or two had passed for all of those images to play in perfect lucidity. I could still move my arms, my feet, walk, think, hear, see, feel. Viki had ran upstairs to get my parents, but we lived in a rather large house. I had no idea where they were upstairs, or how long it would take them to get down to me. Should I run upstairs? Even though my muscles operated normally, I was too scared to go anywhere. Tears started to well up in my eyes. I let them fall, sweeping my gaze around the room to see anything I could fall on to displace the giant green gumdrop. Nothing. Instinctively, I fisted my right hand, with my thumb facing just above my belly button. I covered my right with my left hand, to give it direction and force. I couldn’t speak, or I would have prayed out loud. But, I knew I could pray in my head. I voiced one word. “Help.” Then, I thrust my left hand into my right fist in an inward and upward motion. Nothing.

I had to try again. The disembodied voice from the videos replayed something regarding possible broken ribs, and I hesitated. But I had to breathe. I could survive a broken rib. But I couldn’t survive not breathing. I felt like I should bend over and mimic throwing up at the same time as I shoved my fists into my stomach. So, I shouted up my one-word prayer and tried again, propelling my fists as hard as my underdeveloped arm muscles would allow.

As I shoved inwards and bent over, the giant green gumdrop shot out of me. It didn’t just come up in my mouth again, it catapulted several feet. The next thing I remember, I was lying on the ground not wanting to move, or do or think or feel anything but the flow of oxygen in and out of my mouth. I don’t know if I actually passed out for a few seconds or not. One moment I was attacking myself and the next, I was lying on my side, relishing every breath as my tears fell unimpeded.

The way I was facing, I could see the bottom half of the staircase. Often, we would stand on the third-from-the-bottom stair and jump all the way to the bottom. Then, as we got older, we’d move up to the fourth-from-the-bottom, and so on. The record was the fifth.

My mom is not a very fast person. She is methodical and does everything with meaning and purpose. She speaks clearly, pronouncing each syllable. She irons clothes meticulously and in smooth, unhurried motions. She kneads dough calmly, over and over, with no haste or pounding. When it is her turn to read scriptures or say the family prayer, we all inwardly groan, because she takes forever! She thinks deeply about each sentence she utters, giving it meaning. She pauses in between sentences in the scriptures instead of racing through the allotted verses like the rest of us. No, my mom is not what I would call fast.

My dad, however, has a competitive side to him. He played football all throughout high school and is still an avid tennis player. He is the parent you want in the three-legged races at the reunions. About two steps into the race, he just hugs you up to his side and races full speed ahead. You end up with rope burns at your calfs, but a first-place finish as balm.

So, when I saw my mother’s feet flying down the stairs first, I was astonished. Then, she broke all our stair records. From the sixth stair from the bottom, she jumped! Gracefully clearing all those steps, she vaulted herself around the corner and was kneeling at my side before I could figure out how my mom had moved that fast. Milliseconds later, my dad was hovering over me and they both were asking questions and prodding and lifting and listening as I breathed out a ragged response.

Lots of hugging, explaining and reenacting followed. By this time, Emily had joined in to see what all the fuss was about. Apparently we were finally more interesting than the show.

When I re-tell this family story, as I have often done, during late game nights over common bowls of Peanut M&M’s and Red Vines, and sometimes even gumdrops, I like to take it slow. Viki and I team-tell it, building and building the story until we get to the part about Emily’s innocent, but ridiculous declaration “Get out of the way, you’re blocking the TV”. We all laugh and laugh, wiping away the tears. Courteously, eyes turn to me for a quick one or two sentence recap. But, when I relive it in my mind, as I have often done, I savor different aspects of the story. I recognize the miracle that happened. I stagger at the overwhelming love I felt when I saw my steady, methodical mother leap down six stairs at once and rush to my side.

Someone passes me the bowl of gumdrops. We’ve moved on to another exciting episode of memories by now. I reach in for a gumdrop, avoiding the green ones, bring it to my mouth and promptly bite it in two.

Untitled, part 2 of 2

(Part 2 of 2) -- still looking for a good title. Click here for part 1.

I was so busy glancing around, I almost passed it. But, there it was; a pay phone. I didn’t even look both ways before galloping across the street as I swung my backpack around and fumbled through my wallet for my phone card. I force-fed it down the slot. Zero balance. It spit it out faster than a nine-month old rejecting string beans. If I ever needed a miracle, now was the time. Did I have enough faith? I said a prayer that the card would miraculously work and reinserted it. Rejected again. Briefly the story of the ten virgins flitted across my mind as I turned away and ran down another street. I didn’t have time to deal with a mental reproach on preparation.

Then, I saw a light. It was too bright to be from a personal residence. It had to be some sort of store or business. Then I heard some music. It was faint, but it was definitely music, albeit music with more bass and drums than actual melody. But, music meant people. Unfortunately, these people were even farther away from my companion and I hesitated, wondering if I should run back and check on her. Part of me was shouting to return to my companion and I didn’t know if it was the spirit prompting me, or just the voice in my head who couldn’t deal with the sense of aloneness. Being with a companion was so ingrained into my psyche that it was very difficult to finally pursue the trail of the music. But, I knew it might be my only option for finding a phone.

I had to run about a block and a half before I came to the light. It was a movie theater that doubled as a bar and what appeared to be a tiny nightclub. I sprinted to the entrance and then skidded to a stop. There is something fundamentally wrong with a sister missionary entering a bar alone late at night. Just plain wrong. I hesitated on the steps, my mind and spirit battling out my eternal redemption. My stomach actually lurched backwards as I crossed the threshold. I had broken so many rules in the past twenty minutes, what was one more! I ran to the bartender and asked if I could please borrow the phone.

I’m not sure if it was my accent or my long skirt and tag denoting that I was a “sister” for some church, but she gave me the weirdest look, turned and walked hastily away. What? Not now! I was rejected over and over again all day long when I was trying to talk to people about spiritual matters. That came with the calling. But now? I could not get rejected.

“Ma’am!” My tone got her attention. I started to beg as I explained my emergent circumstances. She finally sighed and went to the counter, returning slowly with a black rotary phone. I reached out for it and she pulled it back. Then, she looked me square in the eyes and said, “Are you going to call England?”

I half grunted a release of tension. “No, no, just here in Ljubljana! I promise! Local call!” A ha! Maybe she hadn’t been rejecting me after all. She had been worried about long distance charges. But, it was nice of her to finally let me use the phone -- even for a local call. Every call, local or not, cost money. All the same, she stood as close to me as the bar allowed and watched me dial every number, ready to disconnect my call if it exceeded the six numbers necessary for a local call. I didn’t attempt to turn away for privacy.

I dialed the Elder’s number, praying the whole time that they had been more rule-abiding than I had been. They answered on the third ring.

“Elder Reynolds! It’s Sister Groberg. Sister Basker’s been hurt. She sprained her ankle or broke it or something. Hurry to our bus stop. We are downtown and will catch a bus to our apartment, but we need your help to get off the bus and up to our apartment. She can’t walk at all, so you need to stay at the bus stop and wait for us. She also wants a priesthood blessing. Please hurry. We could be there in as little as 15 minutes. And however soon you make it there, DO NOT go up to our apartment until we get off the bus. Hurry!”

He said they’d be there. I hung up, thanked the bartender, and gratefully exited the bar. Racing back through the silent, dark streets to my companion, I was overcome with fear. Why had I left her all alone? I had only been gone for about 20 minutes, but it seemed like forever. What if she was gone? She had only been in the country a few weeks and didn’t know her way around or speak the language that well. Dozens of awful scenarios skirted the edges of my mind.

It was with an immense smile that I turned the corner and saw her sitting on the sidewalk, holding onto that signpost like it was the iron rod. I got back just in time for what would be the last bus of the night to take us to our apartment. I helped her get up off the cement and we hopped, painfully, over to where the bus was loading. We started up the stairs very slowly. I tried to bear all her weight each time we had to go up a stair. Another man behind us stepped up and grabbed my companion on the other side and helped us up. A young couple on the bus noticed our predicament and helped us find a seat near the back of the bus so we wouldn’t have to go far once we got to our stop.

They were very friendly and we found out they were headed to our same stop. As we neared our destination, I looked around in vain for the Elders. Where were they? They lived one measly stop away. It would take them 5 minutes, tops! Ten if they walked the whole way. I had been very specific that we needed help getting OFF the bus and to hurry! Where were they?

Fortunately, the nice, young couple helped us get off. As the bus pulled away, I looked up and down the street for the Elders. No sign of them. I could tell the young couple wanted to leave, but they also felt bad abandoning us. I explained we had help coming. They looked around and back at me, their eyes silently asking where the help was. It was awkward for a few moments, until Sister Basker started shaking from so much pain, grabbed my arm, and promptly sat on the ground. It spurred us all into action. I knew we had to start the trek home with or without the Elders. First dilemma: crossing the busy street. I suggested we make a sort of chair by linking arms with the young man. We tried to get my companion to slip her legs through. But, partially because of her long skirt, and mainly from her pain, it was evident it wasn’t going to work. Across the street was an ice cream shop that was just closing. The young lady ran across the street and asked if she could borrow one of their chairs. She ran back across the street with it and we all lifted my companion into it. Then, all three of us tried to lift the chair and carry it across. We made it about ten feet before we toppled and my companion fell, once again, to the ground. Fortunately, she protected her previous injuries and wasn’t hurt further. We were now well into the first lane of oncoming traffic. None of us had any desire to retrace the last ten feet. Instead, I got one side of her, and the man got the other and we hobbled and jumped and carried and stumbled our way slowly across what was normally a very busy thoroughfare of a street. Twice the young lady had to hold her arms out to stop a car until we could cross. But, eventually, we made it.

With each painful and miserable step, I got more and more frustrated with the Elders. Sister Basker was now safely across the street, but the effort and movement had put her over the edge and she sat there crying on the sidewalk. I felt so helpless. And angry. What part of hurry did the Elders misunderstand? The nice young couple asked again if we were sure we had help coming. I promised them, though there was no forte in my voice. They stayed there with me and my crying companion for a few more minutes, then the young lady said, “Look, my car is just a few blocks away. Can I go get it and give your friend a ride up the hill?” The last ten minutes had taught us all that the three blocks up the hill to our apartment were going to take most of the night and the rest of Sister Basker’s capacity.

I looked up the street towards the Elder’s apartment once again, turned back, and nodded my assent. She ran off to get her car while he waited with us, like a protective father. If I wasn’t so upset about the lack of Elders, I would have talked to him about the gospel. They both seemed so kind and deserving.

Ten minutes later, she returned with her car. Still no Elders. I could not possibly think what was keeping them. If something was really wrong, I entertained the notion of them deserving it. We carefully and with a few tears loaded Sister Basker into the passenger side of the car. The young man got in the back. I started to tell them where our apartment was, but the young lady stopped me. “We know where you live. We see you walking all the time. We’ll get her home safe, I promise.” Not only was there not room in the car for me, but also I knew that once the Elders deigned to show up, they would undoubtedly obey my instructions to wait at the bus stop until we got there. I had no choice but to leave my companion, once again, in the company of strangers and trust in God to watch over her.

I waved as they drove off, praying again that I was doing the right thing and turned to stew in misery at the lack of Elders. Ten more minutes dragged on, giving me ample time and energy to plan out several tirades to give them. A, B, and, oh! especially tirade C! That would show them. If they ever arrived.

Finally, a straggling bus came puffing down the road and screeched to a stop in front of the ice cream store. The back door creaked open and down came two young Elders, all dressed up in suits and ties, with hair freshly combed.

“Finally!” I screamed. “What took you so long?” I didn’t even wait for an answer. “She’s not here. Some nice people gave her a ride to our apartment. I can only hope she made it there alive!” They explained that when I called, they were already in bed. They had to get dressed and ready. Also, neither of them had ever given a blessing before. They had to track down some consecrated oil and look up in their handbooks on how to give a blessing. I could see in their recently wetted hair and brushed teeth that they were extremely nervous.

I let them off the hook with a watered down version of tirade B as we ran up the hill and got on the elevator. The whole ride up, I kept praying that she’d be home and safe. Why had I let her go? Again? What if they had robbed our place? Okay, probably not. We didn’t have much in the way of material goods. Unless you count skirts that had been through four sets of missionaries.

I put the key in our lock, took a deep breath, and opened the door. I called out to Sister Basker and she answered with a sweet grunt of pain. She was lying on her bed in agony, but she was there, safe, and alone. I said a prayer of gratitude for that young couple and for all they had done for us. At least we had given them one of our Books of Mormon. It was the best (and only) repayment we had.

Our apartment was a studio apartment and the only place to sit was on our beds. Awkward. Not only was it weird having these two Elders in our apartment, but they were in our bedroom, sitting on our unmade beds. I thought about how many more rules we were breaking and then decided to stop keeping track.

After oohing and aahing (more like eewing and eeeehing) at Sister Basker’s ankle, the Elders sat back down on our beds. And sat. And sat. They started asking about the accident, about our appointments, about our evening. Sister Basker was trying so hard to maintain some dignity, sprawled out our her bed, crying. The Elders were so nervous, they were just stammering small talk. Finally, I shouted, “Look! We didn’t invite you over here for punch and cookies! Just give her a blessing and leave!”

It got their attention. They produced their oil and proceeded to bless her sincerely and powerfully. She was promised that she would regain full use of her ankle in time and our work would not suffer as a result of her injury. After they were done, they started to sit back down on our beds. I’m sure they had read in the handbook that you should visit with those you are blessing, or something like that. I finally had to shoo them out, and promise that we’d call them in the morning to let them know how she was doing.

I found some aspirin for Sister Basker and eventually she fell asleep. As I lay on my straw mattress trying to calm my brain down, I realized how the Lord truly watches over his missionaries. Even when they forget to put money on their phone cards or leave their companions alone, or go into bars, or curse Elders in their minds. I was reminded of the scripture in 1 Samuel 16:7; “but the Lord looketh on the heart.” Even though I had knowingly broken enormous rules that day, I knew the Lord saw my heart, and all was well.