Lame

Tonight is spaghetti night—the first in our house. We bustle in laden with a shower curtain, drawer organizer, and sourdough. Shredded gift wrap garnishes the corner while Kari Marie’s bouquet basks in the moonlight. Tupperware file the walls of the kitchen awaiting the march back to customer service; there is no room in here at all.

“You make the bread and I’ll make the noodles and sauce.”

“Deal.” I reply to my bride. “Do you want garlic on your pieces?”

“Sure. Let me get the table from the living room so we have a place to sit down and eat.” She disappears around the corner. Soon after follows the hiss of scrapping feet on the laminate and my love reappears at the doorway. Thunk. The sides of the table hit the doorposts. Even American tables are obese: fat by three quarters of an inch. ­­­­One word crossed Kari Marie’s lips, l-a-m-e. Lame.


* * *


Happy Singles Awareness Day: a.k.a. Valentines Day. Melancholy drips from the gutters in the Provo MTC. 105 meals consumed; 84 meals left until my companion and I eat our way to freedom.

“Haven’t you learned how to open that thing by now?” I fumble repeatedly through the combination. The mailbox refuses to cooperate. My companion’s anxiety over his 17 year old girlfriend knots his jaw. Eons have passed since her last epistle arrived. Last we knew she flew to Columbia to be with her grandparents. “How long does it take to get mail from a foreign country?”

“A few weeks maybe. I’m sure it will come soon.” He scowls over my shoulder, each envelope an envoy of anguish. Elder Sherlock got a package notice. There are two, three, five letters for Elder Griffiths. Elder Atwell still has nothing.

“Sorry Elder, no letter today.” My hand slides inside my jacket. It is very thin, but across the top four letters blaze. H-O-M-E.

HOME.


* * *


Pisa’s tower of books in my arms, I step slowly. Don’t fall, that would be embarrassing. To a sophomore, nothing is worse than humiliation. New school, new school year, new sneakers. Last class of the day: seminary.

I walk carefully up the aisle, avoiding book bags and basketball shoes. The second to the front desk nears. Thud. Hen feather papers fly as my chest hits the floor. Maybe I should just stay there. Blush reddens my cheekbones as I hurriedly gather my things.

“Are you alright?” I look up. Angels. Sent by God to teach and comfort man. Angels. Possessors of celestial beauty, physically and spiritually. Angels. A tender mercy.

“I’m fine. I just tripped on the desk leg.”

“Here let me help you. My name is Erin.”


* * *


‘How are you? How is the language coming? How is the food? Are you and your companion doing alright? The shuttle is doing well. We are still surviving even though it is the slow season.’ …Wait…This isn’t Mom’s writing. This is from Dad. Just keep reading, what does he have to say? It could be good news.

‘I met with President Frichneckt a few days ago. We talked. It has been decided that I need some help. He and Bishop Nemelka have been working with me and things are going to all be set right by the time you get home.’


* * *


“I can’t do it anymore President. I am failing.”

“What is going on? You’ve been fantastic.”

“No, I haven’t. I’ve tried, but I just can’t do it anymore. I can’t live up to what my companion expects. When I teach, nobody listens. When I try to improve, ridicule alone responds. I’m tired. I can’t do it anymore. Transfer me, please. It would be better off with me out of the way. Just send me somewhere I can do the work. That is all I ask.”

I have been dog paddling four months. Nobody will listen. Those who offer support are far away. Contact is minimal. My companion can’t stand me. I serve and bend and please and bow to his wishes. He can’t stand me. What more could I have done? Myself, alone, that is all I have. My insides churn, “O God, where art Thou?”


* * *


‘Morgan, I have been excommunicated.’

Chew, chew, swallow. Drink. Numb. I must have read that wrong. It can’t be. What happens now? ‘…things are going to all be worked out by the time you get home.’ Reality.

I do everything that Lord wants. I am serving a mission. I pray. I study. I don’t strangle my companion. Isn’t the Lord supposed to bless the family of a missionary? How could this happen? Should I be here? I don’t want to be there.


* * *


The van marches swiftly up the war-torn road. Erosion scarred the road base. Inexperienced surface repair guaranteed a cracked and wrinkled face. With each swell, the van momentarily defies the laws of nature, flying a few feet, landing with a thud.

“Ouch! Can you make the ride any smoother?” Elder Encabo complains. Minutes earlier he had stepped into President Edward’s office, arm hinging mid-bicep. Interviews forgotten, the van speeds toward Naga.

“So what is your story?” President Edwards looks bemused.

“I was arm wrestling. Elder…”

“Say no more. Just be glad you are not a horse.” Seeing befuddlement in our eyes he continues, “A horse breaks a leg, he is shot. There is no use owning a lame horse.”

“I am grateful I am not a horse.”


* * *


“What is happening in these New Testament verses?”

Silence. Finally it breaks, “There was a sick man taken to see Jesus?” What really does Brother Trapnell expect from a group of fourteen-year-olds?

“Yes, a man who was lame with palsy taken to see Jesus. He couldn’t fit through the door on his stretcher. They tore a hole in the roof and lowered him in. When they got him down into the house, what did Jesus do?”

“He healed him!”

“Jesus Christ healed this man. He healed him body and soul. He told him to ‘be of good cheer’. He forgave his sin. After being challenged by the Pharisees, He showed forth His power in removing the physical ailment as well. Remember the scripture in Luke 4:18, ‘he hath sent me to heal the broken-hearted.’”


* * *


Step, step, step. “Hey man, what is up with you?” Nothing, just keep walking. Eternity stretches between lunchroom and classroom. Why are the halls of the MTC so long? The letter singes my pocket, my shirt, my heart. My companion and I stride side by side with little exertion, except for me. Step, step, step.

The hall is stuffed with people. Shards of broken languages fall on my shattered consciousness. A smiling world, full and content…except me. They all have somewhere to go. Why should I even be here? Does anybody even care I’m here? There are many things to do. Elders passing, Sisters chatting, me stepping. Step, step, step.

“Morgan?” Who knows my name? I whirl around. An angel.

“Erin?”

“How are you? I didn’t know you were serving a mission already.”

How am I? She remembered my name.

“Great! I head out to the Philippines in four weeks. How about you? You are serving a mission too!”

“Yes, I just felt like I need to go. I will serve in Washington DC North.”

“It is good to see you.”


* * *


“Are you ready to leave?” Dad walks up the steps from the Provo Library entrance.

“Almost, just a few last things.”

“Well, all the arrangements are made. The key will be on a table inside the door.”

“Thanks Dad. I appreciate it.” A moment of silence passes between us. Two years living in different countries, now residing in different worlds.

“I am proud of you son. You made a good choice to be married in the temple.” The silence deepens. Khaki and green mountains hold up leaden clouds. The storm is over. The valley scrubbed. The air is sharp.

“Thanks Dad. I am glad you could come.” The setting sun slips between horizons. Spears of light shatter into rainbow colors as they arch across the sky.

“I love you son.” He turns. He plods up the pathway toward his van. Grandma is waiting inside. She won’t wait for long.

“I love you too Dad.” I look around, noticing the orange reflection of the sunset on the mountain. A crimson crown adorns the western crags. Old men’s hair lines the clouds. Steam gently rises off the pitch pavement. I love you too Dad.

“Are you ready my love?” Kari Marie had come up behind me.

“Yes, my darling. Let’s go home.”