CATCHING A TROLL

I have heard this story twice, from two different sources--one of my sources was Mrs. Bird, who heard it from her chiropractor. Each version was a little different so I know that true version is not exactly either one of them but I'll put it down as I heard it. Please don't judge me for repeating this story. I'm not making fun, just reporting a story that will be buzzing around here for a long time to come.

A high functioning Down Syndrome boy called his mom at work. Now, this boy--actually he is a man--is a very responsible person and the family trusts him to handle life as it comes. Therefore the mom holds a job and checks in with him during the day but this day, he called her.

"Mom! You've got to come home. I've caught a troll!" He was very excited and kept repeating, "I've caught a troll!"

The mom has heard all kinds of things from her boy so she wasn't too worried. She said things like, "Really?" and "Well, you take care of him, okay?"

She didn't think too much about it until she got the second call, two hours later.

"Mom! Come home and see my troll!"

The mom asked her boss if she could have an hour off. Her boss is very understanding and when he heard about the troll he told her, sure, go see what the ruckus is all about.

When she got home her son grabbed her by the hand and practically pulled her to his bedroom. There she saw all his bedroom furniture piled against the closet door. "Help," came a voice from behind the door.

"Ohmygosh," she said. (This is a Utah saying, and sadly, I know it only too well. It escapes my lips on many an occasion.)

"Help me get this furniture out of the way," she said.

Her son was so excited he was dancing all over the room. "A troll, I told you so. I caught a troll."

One version of the story said he had been sliding Skittles under the door--that I think is one of the exaggerations, but it is a nice detail.

So, when all the furniture was moved and they opened the door, there, sitting on the floor was a dwarf. He was a Jehovah's Witness. He said he wouldn't prosecute. He understood how the boy could mistake him for a troll. He was very understanding.

And that is why missionaries, of any faith--or size--, should always go two by two.

PS I've been notified--by Mr./Mrs. Anonymous--that this is not true. What a disappointment. Here's the Snoops article. I usually check with Snoops as I get emails about the most outlandish things. This story did gave Mrs. Bird and me--and her chiropractor and my dentist--a good laugh. Hope you got one too.

TRUST

We trust it, but one day we end up on the ground. We trust people too. Will they disappoint? Yes. Will they break our hearts? Yes.

Will we disappoint and leave other's stranded or lonely or dissatisfied? We will. It's almost a certainty. We won't mean to, it will just happen. We may even break their hearts.

That's why forgiveness works. And it must work for everyone to work for anyone. If not, it's the unforgiving one who hurts and hurts.

THE ABC'S OF GRATITUDE--H THROUGH K

H--Holy Ghost. I am so grateful that I know He exists, that I know He will never fail. I have had so many "whisperings" that have been warnings, comfort, witnesses of truth, uneasiness at falseness, and even tiny little things like, "go check the soup" two minutes before it was going to boil over. His whispering once saved Gilmore Girl's life. His whispering once saved The Brown Dot from freezing cold in the middle of the night--maybe saved his life, too. He is involved in my life daily and I am grateful I have this knowledge.

I--Ice Cream. I'm grateful I don't like it much. One of the few calorie laden things I don't want to eat. Let's hear it for not wanting to eat ice cream!

J--Jesus. I don't understand how it was done but I know He atoned for my sins and the sins of every human being. As I love my parents--who are gone--how grateful I am for the knowledge that I will be reunited with them--as I love my husband and children, probably more than any of them will ever know, I know, without a shadow of a doubt that Jesus loves more than I ever can. He loves all, not just the good, the pretty, the smart, the ones with good fashion sense. He not only loves me--and everyone else--but he experienced all my fears, pains, disappointments, tragedies, sorrows, etc. He KNOWS how I feel and he is there to give me comfort and acceptance. What a great gift he offers. I'm takin' it, I can tell you.

K--Kids. Not the goat kind. The human kind. Without them this world would be so empty. I am grateful that Heavenly Father let me raise five of them. Each one was/is different. Each one is cherished by Phil and me. I love the sound of children's voices--well, except when they are screaming. Their sing-song-ing up and down voices, how unique that sound is. Some lisp and we are just a little bit sorry when they learn to speak properly. They say hilarious things, do hilarious things, love without motives, forgive almost instantly and throw themselves into life with joy. I wish I had the confidence I had when I was a little child. All children are born with confidence and then they learn fear. So, I'm grateful for kids and for their confidence and pure love and hope this world always has a plethora of them.

Also, it seem to me that when children are born with handicaps that they don't seem to feel sorry for themselves. Adults rant and rail if something happens to them to diminish their abilities but kids seem to take it in their stride. They must have special spirits to be given disabilities and to make the most of what they can do.

A friend of mine saw a child at a doctor's office that had the most debilitating handicap imaginable. He was cheerful and happy. I doubt that he will grow up to be bitter and sad. I think he will grow up to be a great human being and my friend will never forget him. She is a better person for observing his attitude and I am also, for simply hearing about him.

A PERSONAL HISTORY STORY~~FLOUR WATER~~

I stood in front of the milk display at the grocery store. We were almost out of milk and would be for sure, after dinner. Would my milk delivery service have milk there by the time we got up in the morning? Have faith, I told myself, they’ve promised. Again and again they’ve promised. I decided not to buy milk.

The next morning, as I stood on the front porch in my bare feet, looking into the empty milk box I thought, you should have put your faith in the grocery store.

Cereal was out for breakfast; we’d have to have eggs and toast. Kraut, who was about twelve years old, decided not to have eggs. He inherited his Grandma Snyder’s stubborn gene, going back through generations all the way to the stubborn Danes—whom, I might add are also great qualities--just in case anyone from Denmark might read this, which I doubt, but you never know.

“I’m not eating eggs. I’ll have cereal,” he said in a tone of voice I had heard before. It was an exasperated, The Brown Dot-threw-his-socks-at-me-from-the-top-bunk-again-last-night-and-I’m-mad-about-it-and-nothing-you-say-will-make-me-change-my-mind-and-eat-eggs, sort of voice.

“There’s no milk,” I said.

“I’ll use powdered milk.”

“It’s not cold,” I said.

I had been “mixing” milk for some time in an effort to save money and also to use up the fifty-pound bag of non-instant powdered milk I had in the basement. As soon as it was used up I would buy a new fifty-pound bag so we would always be prepared in case of an emergency. I made a quart or two of powdered milk at night and then mixed it with “real” milk the next morning—that is if the milkman delivered. We weren’t supposed to be able to tell the difference between “real” milk and “mixed” milk. Or so the “food-storage” experts said. They were wrong but it was hard for me to admit as I wanted to be prepared.

“Just make me some,” he said, “because I’m not eating eggs!”

I mixed him a glass of powdered milk. I took a good look at it before handing it to him. It was separating, just like each batch of this milk I had made since I had opened the new bag of powdered milk. Even when it was mixed with store bought milk there was always a layer of sludge in the bottom. I had to shake the pitcher before pouring the milk. There was also residue left in the each glass. I’ll never buy this brand of powdered milk again, I thought.

Kraut poured the milk on his cereal and ate it, even the sludge.

After the kids left for school I reluctantly called the Milk delivery service and asked them again if they couldn’t get the milk to us before the kids left for school. They couldn’t. They had too many customers, they said. I thought that their milkmen liked to sleep in so I gave the milkmen the opportunity to do so by canceling my service. I then went to the store and bought milk and came home and mixed up a fresh batch of “mixed” milk so it would be cold by dinnertime.

I looked in the bottom of the pitcher. Sludge. Again! This wasn’t right. I was tired of having sludgy milk.

I opened the Rubbermaid container that I kept the powdered milk in and smelled it. It didn’t smell like anything. I rubbed a bit between my fingers. It’s didn’t squeak like the non-instant powdered milk did; it was silky smooth. Then I tasted it. It tasted like flour. I looked in the pantry and there, behind the oats, was an identical Rubbermaid container. This one had squeaky white stuff in it that tasted like powdered milk. I had been mixing our milk with flour. For weeks I’d been feeding the family milky-flour-water.

As soon as Kraut got home from school I ruffled his hair and apologized. I was grateful that besides inheriting Grandma Snyder’s stubbornness he also inherited her spirit of forgiveness. He hung his head and grinned and then hugged me back when I hugged him. Kraut could give awesome hugs and I felt some of my “I’ve-been-feeding-my-family-bad-food guilt” dissipate.

I never finished using that bag of powdered milk in the basement. I didn’t have the heart to mix milk anymore. Several years later we threw it out. If a catastrophe ever occurs we will drink flour water, just like Kraut.

THE FROZEN PUDDLE

When I was a kid I could board the bus in one of three places. One block away, to the south (uphill, toward the mountain) at my cousin, Holly's house. One block away, to the east, by the church, or right in front of my house. If I boarded at Holly's, I got my choice of any seat I wanted. If I boarded by the church I got most any seat I wanted and if I boarded at my house I had to sit where I could find a seat. If I boarded early I could save a seat for Pam, my best friend and we could visit or read or giggle together all the way to school. At my house I had to sit with a surly boy or a haughty high school girl or wherever. I hated sitting with surly boys or haughty girls or whatevers. I would look back to see Pam sitting with someone she didn't want to sit by either. My bus stop choices affected her too.

But, I was a slow getter-upper. And I loved to stand over the heat vent in the kitchen and let my flannel nightgown fill with warm air. I would do this for a l-o-n-g time. Mother would say things like, "Are you watching the clock?" I never was. She did it for me.

Or, I was still in bed, which happened more often. She would call up the stairs a lie such as, "It's ten minutes to eight." I had a clock ten inches away and knew it was only 7:35. She wanted me to be on time and thought a little lie was necessary. And sometimes it was, as occasionally that call woke me up from a sound sleep after I had banged my alarm off and snuggled back down under warm covers.

One day--this was in grade school--I loitered in bed one minute too long--as usual--and missed the bus at Holly's. I took off for the church at a dead run, cleared the front porch steps in one leap and vaulted across the ditch. The fear of the surly and haughty gave my little legs extra oomph. In front of Lloyd Gleave's house there was always a puddle. This morning it was frozen, but I didn't notice. My heel struck the ice and down I went. I scrambled up, bare hands scraping dirty, rutted ice. I took off again, my unbuttoned coat flying behind me. I made the corner just as the bus screeched to a stop. I got on, found a seat and settled in, nursing my bleeding hands. When Pam got on I forgot all about them and we settled in to tell secrets, laugh and enjoy the warmth of friendship--there was no warmth on the bus and we could often see our breath--but the friendship was enough.

When I got home that night Mom told me the story of the tenderness of a mother. She watched from the door as I cleared the steps, jumped the ditch and then, her hands clutched to her chest, watched as I went down on the puddle. She had her hand on the door, pushing it open when I got up and took off again. She was going to go outside, gather me up, comfort me and tell me I didn't have to go to school. How glad I am that I was off and running before she got to me. I might have gloried in the sympathy, stayed home and been pampered. Instead I went to school and faced all the things that all school students face. Some good, some bad, all contributing to who I am.

I know some people have bad memories of their school years and I have my share. Friends who did underhanded things. Boys I had a crush on who didn't ask me out or boys I didn't like, who did. Teachers who ridiculed in front of the whole class--I had one high school teacher who did this--he actually hated me, I think--and the reason was because I deserved it.

I was a brat in his class. I was even a brat right to his face. I argued with him in front of everyone more than once and I think I went to the Principal's office over it, but more often than not he gritted his teeth and put up with my rudness.

I need to put those times behind me. Not forget, maybe, but forgive. Forgive those who hurt me and forgive myself for being on the other end, being in power--or supposed power--and hurting someone else . I need to forgive myself for being rude or even for not doing my best, just sliding by and not caring that the teachers were trying to change my life for the better.

I really don't know why this all came out tonight but there it is. Since I can't apologize to all those who I hurt or disobeyed or dishonored I am confessing to you. I'm sorry. I hope I have been forgiven.

I hope your good memories overshadow your bad ones, like mine do. I hope you have forgiven others and yourself and are facing each new day with courage to get up from the frozen puddle and face life running, coattails flying, knowing that good things await.

FORGIVENESS

I had lost some money. A tidy sum. I didn't dare tell Phil. I felt awful about it. I was careless. I'm like that sometimes. Careless and casual and irresponsible--laa-te-dawing through life.

Yesterday Phil took the stack of newspapers out to the recycle can. I was going to go through them first to see if I had dropped the envelope on top and it had gotten mixed in, but he took them out a day early. Tomorrow the recycle truck comes and I HAD to fess up and tell Phil why I was going to trudge inside with an armful of papers and make a mess in the tidy (because the home teachers came) living room.

I unburdened. I waited for the sighing and the reminder that I'm careless. I waited.

"That money is not in the newspapers. You'll find it," he said. This is the same thing Pam had said--I had told her because I knew she wouldn't sigh and remind me that I'm careless and I simply had to tell someone.

I waited for the other shoe to drop. Waited...waited...waited...nothing.

"Phil," I said, "I've looked everywhere--FOR A WEEK. It's gone."

"It's okay," he said. "It's just money."

My eyes bugged out of my head. Just money? Honestly, he's lost his mind, I thought.

Our water heater has decided to breathe it's last, flooding parts of the laundry room and flooding the bathroom. The water should have gone down the laundry room drain, but things being what they are, the floor slopes the wrong way. Thank you, builder-who-cut-every-corner-possible. So, obviously we need a new water heater, if not a new floor. Which costs money, like the money I'd lost. Not enough to pay for a new water heater but enough to pay for part of it.

"Have you prayed about it," Phil asked in a mild mannered Clark Kent voice.

"No."

"Well, do that and you'll find it. If not, it's okay."

Now, how can you not adore a man who treats you like that?

I said a silent prayer, went into the kitchen, set the timer for seven minutes and thought, Maybe I can get the table cleaned off in seven minutes. At least this will take my mind off the lost money.

Seven minutes? Ha. I am still wrapping and bagging caramels and all the other fru-fra of Christmas is there on the table. Seven minutes wouldn't be enough time to even start but guess what? In less than seven minutes I found the money.

"I found the money," I yelled downstairs to Phil, who was talking to a plumber who was supposed to install a new water heater for a prearranged price.

"I knew you would," Phil said.

The plumber was also happy to hear I found the money so he quoted almost $400 extra dollars to re-rout the gas line--or some such thing--the mechanics of this kind of thing escape me--and install the water heater.

I forgave him his greediness because Phil forgave me and it felt so good--to be forgiven. I forgave him and gave him a bag of caramels when he left.

Phil is going to install the water heater. He can do anything. Include forgive people who are careless and irresponsible.