The People We Keep (and Who Keep Us)
I’ve been overcome this weekend by the significance of people in my life and all they have done and continue to do for me. This isn’t new, given my reflections on Shaley, my two best friends, and how much a ward family can mean in recent times. But I feel it in my bones yet again, and it feels important to pay attention to.
I feel now very strongly that sending Elder Simms to be my companion was an answer to a zillion prayers, both my own and those of others on my behalf. God couldn’t literally be there Himself to pick me up right then, but He could send someone who would be the exact fix to my problems, and I will never forget that. I have since been striving to pay attention to step in and hopefully be someone God can use in the way he used Elder Simms. The one time I really felt like I was doing something along those lines when I was an elders quorum president was when I visited a man in my ward whose dad had just died. We cried together, read some scriptures, and the stake president and I gave him a blessing; I attended his dad’s funeral a couple of weeks later. I made a particular effort to talk to this guy every week at church. Life later pulled us apart (moving, jobs, new wards, etc.). Who should I see in church today but that same man, now returning to activity after a few years away from the church. He hugged me twice, so glad to see a familiar face in a new ward. I was equally thrilled to see him and hear him bear his testimony.
What I have found interesting in the last few years is that I can become self conscious about trying to show up for the ones that I love, even though I know intellectually that the effort is what matters and that showing love isn’t some tricky test you can ace. This nervousness that I won’t be supportive in the right way has kept me from reaching out at times to people I know have real needs. When I manage to overcome it, I’ve seen really important things happen.
The best example that has come out of me getting over that self consciousness is my friend Jesse. We were just casual acquaintances when I found out through the grapevine that his mom was going through cancer treatments. I couldn’t stop thinking about trying to offer some support because I couldn’t quite tell what his mother’s prognosis was, and there wasn’t really a way for me to find out the severity. After a couple of weeks of waffling I finally sent a message just relaying my support and empathy for what he was going through. He wrote a vulnerable response and appreciated that I’d reached out. I don’t remember how long it took from there, but we became really good friends (but first we would bump into each other in our therapist’s office and feel the discomfort of realizing we saw the same shrink, but weren’t friends enough yet for it to be funny). I’m thrilled for all the time we’ve now hiked, played video games, eaten pizza, had deep conversations, watched each other grow, and just been witnesses to each other’s life. Jesse means a lot to me.
I was almost sidelined by this same self consciousness today when I knew I needed to make a phone call to my pal, Eric. He mentioned to me via text yesterday that his dad unexpectedly passed away a few weeks ago. I was so mad at myself for not keeping up with him enough to know that, but resolved to be a good friend going forward as he faces this time of mourning and decision making. My heart started beating faster as I thought about calling and got worried it would all go wrong. What if I asked the wrong question? What if I put my foot in my mouth? What if I compounded the problem instead of helped lessen it? I reminded myself that not only is the thought the actual point in this scenario, but also that I’ve been in his exact situation. I’m probably more uniquely ready to help than most of his other friends right now. I steeled myself and placed the call. In the end, he didn’t answer anyway, so I left a voicemail that I’m both proud and embarrassed of. Proud for telling him that I love him and that I’m sorry he’s going through this. Embarrassed for crying at the end of it, and wondering if that was Too Much since I don’t have any sense of how Eric is coping. But I’m also sort of proud of the crying too, because that’s what it looks like when I show up for someone—banter, tangents, probably some candy, and absolutely some crying.
I recognize that I’m learning to show up for myself a little bit (I hate how much that sounds like a trite self help book, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯). That mission companion I thought I’d write a lot about, Brandon? Well, he’s actually the final deciding factor for why I started therapy back in 2018. I love this guy, and we had an incredible few months together towards the end of my mission. He came home after his two years and began sorting through his life, and ultimately made some big changes. Admittedly, I didn’t agree with all of them, but I was as supportive as I could be. I was hardly judging him because needing to sort through life a little bit was deeply relatable. But I was already pretty unwell, and learning about his drastic steps sent me reeling; that was when I knew I needed to get some outside help. (The reeling wasn’t because of Brandon himself, or even the details of the acts, it was just seeing someone depart from the LDS norm and making big changes that stressed me out since I was contemplating big changes.)
Fast forward almost five years and he and I got together about a month ago when he was in town vacationing with some friends. Brandon is still living a life that is very different from what I want for myself, but I left that whole interaction deeply grateful that he wanted to maintain our connection. He’s wild, but he’s also great. Moreover, I was thrilled to leave our interaction feeling much more secure in who I am and the decisions I’m making now instead of being knocked so badly off kilter like last time. There’s still immense uncertainty in my life, but I have spent a lot of time since I last saw him trying to get emotionally well, developing a support system, and engaging with big questions and what they mean to me. It’s gritty and unglamorous, and the process takes so long with such gradual changes that you barely realize they’re happening sometimes. But to face Brandon and come away only with appreciation and love for him and recognize that the effort I gave to myself through therapy and other hard work was really empowering.
I attended Ally Night this evening, an informal storytelling event meant to build bridges between LGBTQ folks and LDS or LDS-adjacent people. The speaker talked about her ability to love big and that she feels it a unique talent. As I sat there and thought about the development I’ve made and how important people have been and are to me, I decided that everyone is capable of the same big love but often aren’t sure how to actually make that evident outwardly (or often how to receive it!). I’m grateful for the countless folks who have shown me the way as they’ve loved me through whistling at my events, mailing me something, sending a text, and dragging me around Kentucky. I’m trying to repay all of that in kind.
A lot of this started at a White Coat Ceremony for my second year PT students on Saturday. I loved hearing families and friends cheer as their loved one’s name was read. There was a really dapper older guy a few rows away from me (the rare occurrence where a fedora really worked; he looked great!). He was sitting alone, and when his person’s name was called he stood and clapped, not making much of an audible or visual statement in such a big space. Yet his act of showing up as one person in a busy room to support someone he cared about that was deeply touching to see. To be one in a sea of many can feel like it’s not much impact, but this guy knew that sometimes it’s about showing up for your person’s ten seconds on stage and getting to hug them after than the stomping or the cheering.
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| Soon to be doctors! |
The whole event made me think about my mom (shocker). She had an incredible whistle, the kind where she put her fingers in her mouth and nearly deafened everyone in her immediate proximity. I still haven’t worked out how to do it, but every band concert, graduation, play, awards ceremony, or other inane thing she had to schlep me to and then sit through herself also came with her very distinct whistle during the applause. It cut through the din in a way that always made it clear that while I might not be able to see her in the crowd, I always knew she was there. And this feels like it’s undercutting our fedora-wearing friend, but I think the actual takeaway here is that my mom was giving what she could give in the same way I saw in the gym yesterday. It wasn’t about the noise necessarily, but it was about Mom making her statement: “I’m here, and I need you to know that.” And I felt deep inside me, sitting on those risers watching my students, that my mother is still whistling for me as I keep plugging along. It’s not audible now, but rather a pride and a warmth I carry inside.
Tonight I spent a long time going through mission photos looking for one with a very specific companion because I thought I was going to write about him at length. Instead I spent at least an hour reliving my incredible experiences in Kentucky and Indiana, being reminded of so many wonderful things I was able to do and the astounding people that touched my life. I am so sad to not be in contact with very many of them anymore, but their impact is no lesser for it. I think specifically about my second companion, Elder Simms, who made me want to stay on a mission because I was able to see the joy it could bring through him. In hindsight, I think I probably was a tough companion at times in those early days, and he never made me feel that way. Instead we laughed and worked hard and he tried to show me all the things that he had learned. I loved every day I spent in small-town Kentucky with him. He truly altered the course of my life by helping me stay on my mission, by showing up committed to the work and to doing good, and by loving me exactly as I was. I can’t imagine what would have happened if we hadn’t met when we did.
::
Tonight I spent a long time going through mission photos looking for one with a very specific companion because I thought I was going to write about him at length. Instead I spent at least an hour reliving my incredible experiences in Kentucky and Indiana, being reminded of so many wonderful things I was able to do and the astounding people that touched my life. I am so sad to not be in contact with very many of them anymore, but their impact is no lesser for it. I think specifically about my second companion, Elder Simms, who made me want to stay on a mission because I was able to see the joy it could bring through him. In hindsight, I think I probably was a tough companion at times in those early days, and he never made me feel that way. Instead we laughed and worked hard and he tried to show me all the things that he had learned. I loved every day I spent in small-town Kentucky with him. He truly altered the course of my life by helping me stay on my mission, by showing up committed to the work and to doing good, and by loving me exactly as I was. I can’t imagine what would have happened if we hadn’t met when we did.
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| I loved finding this photo. I sent it to Elder Simms immediately. |
I feel now very strongly that sending Elder Simms to be my companion was an answer to a zillion prayers, both my own and those of others on my behalf. God couldn’t literally be there Himself to pick me up right then, but He could send someone who would be the exact fix to my problems, and I will never forget that. I have since been striving to pay attention to step in and hopefully be someone God can use in the way he used Elder Simms. The one time I really felt like I was doing something along those lines when I was an elders quorum president was when I visited a man in my ward whose dad had just died. We cried together, read some scriptures, and the stake president and I gave him a blessing; I attended his dad’s funeral a couple of weeks later. I made a particular effort to talk to this guy every week at church. Life later pulled us apart (moving, jobs, new wards, etc.). Who should I see in church today but that same man, now returning to activity after a few years away from the church. He hugged me twice, so glad to see a familiar face in a new ward. I was equally thrilled to see him and hear him bear his testimony.
::
What I have found interesting in the last few years is that I can become self conscious about trying to show up for the ones that I love, even though I know intellectually that the effort is what matters and that showing love isn’t some tricky test you can ace. This nervousness that I won’t be supportive in the right way has kept me from reaching out at times to people I know have real needs. When I manage to overcome it, I’ve seen really important things happen.
The best example that has come out of me getting over that self consciousness is my friend Jesse. We were just casual acquaintances when I found out through the grapevine that his mom was going through cancer treatments. I couldn’t stop thinking about trying to offer some support because I couldn’t quite tell what his mother’s prognosis was, and there wasn’t really a way for me to find out the severity. After a couple of weeks of waffling I finally sent a message just relaying my support and empathy for what he was going through. He wrote a vulnerable response and appreciated that I’d reached out. I don’t remember how long it took from there, but we became really good friends (but first we would bump into each other in our therapist’s office and feel the discomfort of realizing we saw the same shrink, but weren’t friends enough yet for it to be funny). I’m thrilled for all the time we’ve now hiked, played video games, eaten pizza, had deep conversations, watched each other grow, and just been witnesses to each other’s life. Jesse means a lot to me.
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| One of my life's great joys was watching Jesse fall in love with his now wife, Tyler. |
I was almost sidelined by this same self consciousness today when I knew I needed to make a phone call to my pal, Eric. He mentioned to me via text yesterday that his dad unexpectedly passed away a few weeks ago. I was so mad at myself for not keeping up with him enough to know that, but resolved to be a good friend going forward as he faces this time of mourning and decision making. My heart started beating faster as I thought about calling and got worried it would all go wrong. What if I asked the wrong question? What if I put my foot in my mouth? What if I compounded the problem instead of helped lessen it? I reminded myself that not only is the thought the actual point in this scenario, but also that I’ve been in his exact situation. I’m probably more uniquely ready to help than most of his other friends right now. I steeled myself and placed the call. In the end, he didn’t answer anyway, so I left a voicemail that I’m both proud and embarrassed of. Proud for telling him that I love him and that I’m sorry he’s going through this. Embarrassed for crying at the end of it, and wondering if that was Too Much since I don’t have any sense of how Eric is coping. But I’m also sort of proud of the crying too, because that’s what it looks like when I show up for someone—banter, tangents, probably some candy, and absolutely some crying.
::
I recognize that I’m learning to show up for myself a little bit (I hate how much that sounds like a trite self help book, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯). That mission companion I thought I’d write a lot about, Brandon? Well, he’s actually the final deciding factor for why I started therapy back in 2018. I love this guy, and we had an incredible few months together towards the end of my mission. He came home after his two years and began sorting through his life, and ultimately made some big changes. Admittedly, I didn’t agree with all of them, but I was as supportive as I could be. I was hardly judging him because needing to sort through life a little bit was deeply relatable. But I was already pretty unwell, and learning about his drastic steps sent me reeling; that was when I knew I needed to get some outside help. (The reeling wasn’t because of Brandon himself, or even the details of the acts, it was just seeing someone depart from the LDS norm and making big changes that stressed me out since I was contemplating big changes.)
Fast forward almost five years and he and I got together about a month ago when he was in town vacationing with some friends. Brandon is still living a life that is very different from what I want for myself, but I left that whole interaction deeply grateful that he wanted to maintain our connection. He’s wild, but he’s also great. Moreover, I was thrilled to leave our interaction feeling much more secure in who I am and the decisions I’m making now instead of being knocked so badly off kilter like last time. There’s still immense uncertainty in my life, but I have spent a lot of time since I last saw him trying to get emotionally well, developing a support system, and engaging with big questions and what they mean to me. It’s gritty and unglamorous, and the process takes so long with such gradual changes that you barely realize they’re happening sometimes. But to face Brandon and come away only with appreciation and love for him and recognize that the effort I gave to myself through therapy and other hard work was really empowering.
::
I attended Ally Night this evening, an informal storytelling event meant to build bridges between LGBTQ folks and LDS or LDS-adjacent people. The speaker talked about her ability to love big and that she feels it a unique talent. As I sat there and thought about the development I’ve made and how important people have been and are to me, I decided that everyone is capable of the same big love but often aren’t sure how to actually make that evident outwardly (or often how to receive it!). I’m grateful for the countless folks who have shown me the way as they’ve loved me through whistling at my events, mailing me something, sending a text, and dragging me around Kentucky. I’m trying to repay all of that in kind.
(Post title inspired by this book I really liked a few years ago.)
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| My mom's ability to show up went beyond whistling. She mailed me jam on my mission. |
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