Journaling Backfill Project and the Angel of '03
With the release of Journalous a couple weeks ago, I started on a major project that I’ve been wanting to do for the last fifteen years. That project is consolidating my personal journals into one place and filling in details of my life with other digital records like emails and pictures. The end goal is to preserve memories of my life so that I (and others coming after me) can remember who I am and how and why I became that way.
But as I’ve been working through this, it’s been a lot more difficult than I envisioned. Not because the memories are bad. Not because I made terrible mistakes that I wish I could time travel back to and change. No, the hardest part of all this is seeing all the good that folks did for me, all the ways I was blessed by others, and not remembering ever telling them that I appreciated them and that I was so grateful for every thought, word, and action they put forth in helping mold me to be who I am today. I’ve been completely heartbroken over one series of events that I journaled last week (literally—I went for an easy run the other morning and indifferent to the slow pace I was moving, my heart was pinned near max the whole time).
Kicking Against the Pricks
In the summer of 2002, while in Toulouse, France, I was taking part in a friendly game of foot (soccer for my American readers). It was June 21st. I remember that because it was the day Germany and the United States played each other in the World Cup. We had arranged this friendly match to be the Americans in that part of the mission versus Europeans in that part of the mission. All-time goalie was our mission president. Anyway, I wanted to score a goal on him (could you imagine the self-glaze I’d be able to pour on myself). I had the ball, wound up for a clear shot on goal, and with the full force of my whole body I kicked…the bottom of a European’s cleat. While I had my eyes on the goal, he had come and snagged the ball right from me. Needless to say, the church shoes I had been wearing were no match for a legitimate pair of cleats and I was down for the count.
A couple weeks later, I was on a plane in a cast up to my knee, returning to the United States—six months earlier than planned. This is the part of the story where I should have learned that sometimes God’s plan (or Fate’s for my readers who aren’t religious) for us often doesn’t align with what we think should happen. However, that wasn’t the case. Instead, I tried to shoehorn my plans, the ones I had envisioned in my mind for the previous twenty years, into the unforeseen circumstances I had encountered.
The Wolf Among Sheep
Things started okay when I returned home. I was able to get back into university and even ended up roommates with my cousin and five other freshmen. Having attended school for a year before my time in France, I was the seasoned veteran, the dude everyone turned to for a good example. Unfortunately, I wasn’t much of an example to those young men. (Well, in some ways I’m sure I was, but when shenanigans turned into full blown stupidity, I did not have the guts to step up and guide those lambs to greener pastures.)
But overall, it was good times that I will never forget. School was going okay for me. Decent grades, decent habits carried over from France, a good job designing ads for the campus newspaper. My square plans were seemingly fitting quite well in the round situation I was in.
Then came the end of the year. April 2003. Everyone was moving out—off to serve in foreign lands themselves like I had done two years prior or headed back home to work for the summer. I was the last one left in the apartment and I was hit with a deep, sinking feeling—I was going to be alone. All of my friends from before France were still out serving. All of my new friends were leaving themselves. My family lived across the country. I was a lone sheep and the Big Bad Wolf had caught wind of it. I was being hunted and he was ready to take me.
(Note to readers: Times were different in 2003. Not everyone had a cellphone. Email and Internet were still somewhat of a novelty. People were unable to stay in constant communication all the time. In fact, if that were the case, I might not be writing this story right now. So, when I say I was alone, I kinda was.)
Dark Clouds of Trouble
To put it bluntly, I was suffering from a bout of depression. I tried to work through it. In May, I decided to visit a friend in Denver. I drove for fifteen hours on this nasty Greyhound bus (thanks Better Than Ezra). I had a great time playing Three Little Pigs with my friend’s younger sisters, watching movies, stuffing my face with five pounds of cinnamon bears (a habit, I admit, I have not outgrown), and just being with very caring people. Unfortunately for me that was only three days. After that marvelous weekend, I was back to being alone.
My sister got married in June. I was able to celebrate that occasion with my family. That really helped things. As happy as I was for my sister and new brother-in-law, I realized my depression was getting deeper because the Big Bad Wolf was continuing to remind me that I was alone while everyone else had company. It was then that I decided to withdraw for the spring and summer terms and head back east with my family. They had helped me so much those couple days I was with them, I felt like a longer term arrangement would get me out of my funk.
I was sort of right. I was sort of wrong. I spent that summer working with my brother on a warehouse dock. We worked long hours and quite simply had a blast. However, after work, life had me back under the Big Bad Wolf’s paws. A toothache led to me getting my wisdom teeth removed and the last thing you want when you aren’t feeling right is to have your mind and body taken over by drugs. To top everything off, my parents’ relationship was on the rocks. I wanted so badly to help, but my attempts to keep them together ultimately failed.
Again, I decided to visit the same family I had visited in May. They had moved from the Denver area to St. Louis soon after my May visit. Luckily for me, St. Louis was a quick four hours away. This time I avoided the bus and was able to drive myself. And to avoid being alone, I brought two younger brothers and a younger sister along.
I have no journal entry detailing that weekend. What I have is this: the four of us and my university friend’s siblings made a video about Prometheus and Io. I couldn’t tell you why, and I couldn’t tell you a single line of it. I just remember laughing harder than I had all summer. I felt happy because I was surrounded by good people.
That drive back was hard. The road from St. Louis to Memphis was dark. Very dark. My efforts to keep my siblings awake with me failed (they were young and had school in the morning). I didn’t think I could do it. The darkness was too great and I was just so sleepy. But I had to fight and I had to get home safely. Luckily, we did. But that night on that road summed up how 2003 looks in my mind when I look back. It is always nighttime. It is always dark. It is always cloudy. It is always cold. However, I was soon blessed with a light.
The Angel of ‘03
A few weeks later, I was back at school. I was rooming with a friend I met during my time in France. A great friend. However, he was engaged and preoccupied with his wedding arrangements (which is totally justifiable). I was back to being a lost sheep running around in the darkness of depression. That fall semester of ‘03 was the worst bit of schooling I’ve ever gone through in my life (which, looking back, is probably not abnormal for someone in the state I was in). I dedicated more hours to studying than ever before, but the return on that investment was the worst grades I’ve ever received. I was drowning.
It was at this time that my university friend’s little sister reached out her hand and, with all the strength of an angel from heaven, pulled me up and kept me above water. After two visits from me, she had decided I was family—a long-lost cousin. She was still in high school. (I want so badly to shout her name here so that the whole world can know what a blessing she was in my life at that time, but to honor her privacy we’ll just call her Sara.) I kid you not, Sara emailed and messaged me every day. Without fail, every day.
She would send me these great stories that would make me smile when I thought my mouth had permanently forgotten that shape. For example, one day she was walking home from choir (she did most of her schooling at home, but went to the high school for choir) and it started pouring. She was soaked and some old ladies laughed at her and said it served her right for skipping school (she didn’t). She wanted to take one of them out with her own cane, and her little dog with her. And then, in the very next line, she decided she’d probably be just as bad at that age and the old lady could keep the cane and the dog. Soaking wet, mocked by a stranger, and still finding a way to be generous about it. And still funny.
Here’s another message I found in the archives last week, from November 2003. The bus station she mentions is mine.
“Man, I’m so bummed! My cousins are leaving tomorrow night. Dang. I feel like they just got here. I’m almost as sad as that day we took dad to the airport and then we dropped you off at the bus station and I bawled like a baby and then denied it.”
She was never checking in on me. She was just telling me about her days.
I am almost certain Sara never had any clue what I was going through at the time. I think that God (or Fate) maybe whispered to her heart that I needed the support. But ultimately, I just think that is who Sara was (and I can imagine still is today). The type of person who cares for others. The kind of person who walks into a room and makes everyone feel better for her being in it. The kind of person who expresses love and appreciation often without thought of reciprocation. The kind of person who likely doesn’t even know that they made a difference because they are never even focused on the recognition. The kind of person I someday hope to be like.
I wish this story had a happy ending. In some ways it does: I made it through 2003. I will always look back on that year as a sheep running from a Big Bad Wolf and a storm of darkness, but I made it through.
The girl I played Three Little Pigs with in Denver kept the wolf out.
And because of the things I learned from Sara that year, I haven’t really struggled with this sort of depression again. My life has been blessed in rich and full ways. Those are the happy things. But on the unhappy side, I haven’t spoken to Sara for over twenty years. I don’t know how her life has gone. I don’t know if there was a time when dark clouds were hanging over her and she needed an angel. The unfortunate and very sad part of this story is that I told her to go on without me. Maybe I thought that the idea of having a friend that was a girl couldn’t co-exist with future marriage and family life. Maybe I thought I was pulling her down. All I know is that on January 26, 2004, I said goodbye to Sara and have no more records of future conversations with her.
And that breaks my heart.
Don’t let your angels pass by you without showing your appreciation. And whatever you do, don’t tell one of them to go on without you.