Elder Newman

Elder Newman

by

Paul Adams

“I’ve been in touch with the General Authorities in Salt Lake, and it’s been decided that you should be sent home.”

I sat in silence, my mouth hanging open, too stunned to speak, as President Spain delivered the soul-shattering news. It was the final nail in the coffin. That metaphoric straw on the camel’s back that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was a useless failure.

“You will receive an honorable discharge from the Massachusetts Boston mission, and you will continue your service at Temple Square in Salt Lake as a service missionary.”

I continued to listen to the mission president’s explanations in a state of numb stupor. I couldn’t think. I only managed to offer weak replies of “okay” and “I understand” as the words “sent home” bounced through my brain, ricocheting off all the other words jumbled around in there, tearing me down and driving me insane, all in the same harsh voice full of condescension that I had heard every day since I started my mission.

It all started six weeks before, the day after I arrived in Boston airport. The other six new missionaries and I sat in a row of cold, hard folding chairs in the back of a large room in the local church building. Soon the room was filled with at least a hundred other missionaries. President Spain stood at the front of the room, announcing the new companion assignments.

“Elder Newman,” he announced.

A tall missionary with short brown hair and a face reminiscent of high school jocks from a thousand different movies stood up.

“You’ll be serving with Elder Adams in the Amherst area,” President Spain said.

It took me a second to register that he had called my name, as he had been calling names for some time now, and I stood in hesitation. Elder Newman turned to look at me, a grin as wide as his face spreading across it. He let out a “whoop” and ran back toward me, jumping on me in a strong embrace that left my shoulders aching.

This initial warm reception left me hopeful that things were going to go well with this new companion. But it was not to be. Ever since I was in Elementary School, I had been shy and introverted, struggling to make any sort of social interaction. I had been working on improving this condition but at the time I started my mission, it still left something to be desired.

This was where our troubles began. On our first day working together, I had determined that it was best to watch and learn, taking a backseat in our discussions so that I could learn by example. When we returned home that evening, Newman retired to our study area immediately so that he could write a letter to our Mission President, reporting that I was doing nothing.

As the weeks passed, our companionship grew steadily worse. My lack of social skills severely hampered my ability to do the work we needed to do, and Newman grew steadily more cruel and critical. Over the six weeks we were together, he managed to find something wrong about everything I did. He made me his project, determined to weed out everything that made me the failure I supposedly was and correct them. He insulted my mother, father, brother, sister, and grandmother, criticized my choice of tie and what wrist I wore my watch on. None of the groceries I bought for myself were good enough, and sometimes he would even stop me in the middle of a sentence just to criticize a word choice.

One day, we were conversing casually and had been on the subject of my wanting to become a writer. I was describing to him one of the stories I wanted to write when he interrupted me midsentence.

“You know something, Elder,” he said, “I’ve decided something. I think I know the reason you want to be a writer. Your life is so pathetic and miserable that you have created these worlds for yourself that you can control to make yourself feel better.”

Several nights were spent with tennis balls being thrown at my head in an attempt to improve my poor hand-eye coordination. Every day, I had to watch my step as we went out and taught, or else on the way home, he was sure to fall deathly silent, let out a deep breath that oozed with distaste and irritation, before he would launch into a tirade spelling out exactly where I had gone wrong that day. One day, as we were eating lunch in a Subway and he had just finished criticizing my choice of sandwich toppings, he took his deep breath and said, “You know, Elder, I’ve met a lot of people who seem stupid on the outside but are actually really smart underneath. I thought it was going to be that way with you, but you are just stupid.”

The worst part of it was that I let it happen. Through it all, I kept quiet and held my tongue while he pushed me around and treated me like an idiot. This happened for two main reasons. First, I was on my mission. My job was to teach the gospel, not get into fights. I knew that if I fought back, it would only lead to contention and disrupt our work. Secondly, everything he said to me played on fears and insecurities I had already been harboring inside my own mind. So every time he threw a new insult at me, I didn’t bite back. I simply took it as uncontested fact and took it upon myself to change and be better.

At the end of our six weeks together, I was told that I would be transferred back home to Salt Lake. I was crushed. After weeks of constant mental and emotional battering from Elder Newman, it now felt like God himself had rejected me and written me off as a failure. I put on a good face for the other missionaries and held my composure until I was on the flight back home, at which point I leaned my head against the cold window and cried. It was on that flight that things changed. I determined within myself to stop beating myself up and feeling sorry for myself. My God was not someone who wrote people off. I knew that He always had a plan and that I should trust Him. I made a promise there in that airplane seat, to myself and to God, that whatever my new assignment was, I would fulfill it to the best of my ability and that I would prove I wasn’t a failure.

When I got home, I learned that I would be serving in the Family and Church History Mission in Salt Lake City, working mainly in processing many important church documents as well as finding and preparing family names for temple work to be done. In my first week alone, I accomplished more than I ever could have back in Boston, and managed to get the temple work done for over three hundred ancestors.

Newman’s words haunted me for months, but eventually I came to realize that he was wrong. I took from his words anything that was truly beneficial to me, and mentally threw away everything else, refusing to let it damage me anymore. A few months into my new mission, Elder Newman showed up at my doorstep, dishonorably discharged. It turns out my mother had taken matters into her own hands, writing to President Spain and bringing Elder Newman’s actions to light. I wasn’t there that day when he arrived, busy at work down at the Church History Library, so it was my mother who answered the door. She described later to me how he had apologized and expressed remorse for his actions in Boston as he sat at our kitchen counter, wringing a napkin in his hands. I haven’t seen him since that day.

Nearly two years later, I walked out of the Church History Library for the last time. The sky was clear and the November air felt nice in my lungs. A strange sense of peace filled me, a palpable peace that refused to go away for two whole days afterwards, no matter how much my worrying nature tried to dispel it. There are stories in our church about missionaries finishing their missions and hearing an audible voice telling them “Well done, my good and faithful servant,” or some other confirmation that their efforts had been accepted. That peace was mine. I was not a failure. God had not given up on me.

I was good enough.

Thanks for reading. Comment below, and follow me for more.

A Woman of Love

A WOMAN OF LOVE

By Paul Adams

The room fell silent as Grandma Joyce was wheeled up to the side of the casket. “Oh, Leon,” she said through tears, “you had to go and leave me, didn’t you?” Then, after one last look at her husband’s face, uttered, “I do love you.”

During the first ten years of my life, my parents both worked full-time jobs, so my brother and I would spend the bulk of our time every day at our grandparents’ house, which was just two blocks away. We would run around and play in the backyard, eating the plums that fell from her tree, or watch Disney movies and M*A*S*H in Grandma’s living room. The three residents of the house, Grandma Joyce, Grandpa Leon, and Aunt Susan, loved having us over and always made sure we were fed and cared for.

Grandma Joyce was always at the forefront of love and care for not only my brother and I, but also for every member of our extended family. She took great pains to build a personal relationship with each of us, and as a result, we all love her for it. She has kept our family together through thick and thin and has always provided a place of comfort and security wherever we go in life.

Grandma was born Gladys Joyce Bluemel on a farm in the 1930’s to a faithful Mormon family. She grew up as the oldest child in the family with two younger brothers. Her farm upbringing instilled in her a strong work ethic that would carry her for the rest of her life. She met her husband, Edwin Leon Jaeger, at the wedding of her first cousin and his second cousin. They were married shortly thereafter, and she went on to give birth to five children: Melissa, Randy, Victor, Susan, and my mother Deborah. Leon took a job as an engineer at Hill Air Force Base, which meant that he would be away for sometimes months at a time. This meant that much of the running of the household fell to Joyce, doubling her already strong work ethic. To this day, Grandma Joyce still takes it upon herself to see to it that every little detail is taken care of.

Grandma Joyce is a small frail woman whose health has slowly declined in recent years. She has short, curly, white hair, kind eyes, and an infectious smile. Many of her grandkids now tower over her, but she still calls them her “little boys.” As the years go by, she becomes less and less able to do things for herself. Although the rest of her family is happy to pick up the slack, her condition has brought her to tears on numerous occasions out of feelings of uselessness.

When I was small, I liked to spend time around her. She often worked on sweaters or quilts while I sat beside her and gabbed at her for hours on end. If I was laying in the middle of the living room floor, engrossed in a movie, she would run a cold knitting needle up my back and make me jump. Sometimes, when I was being a major pain-in-the-butt, she would take off her slipper and chase me with it. A truly terrifying experience, that. The time I spent with her meant the world to me, and even now I still see her as just as important a part of my life and upbringing as either of my parents. From her I learned good morals and values, I learned how to have a positive outlook on life, and how to see the good in other people.

Every year, our family would get together for numerous holidays at Grandma’s house. Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, Pioneer Day, and Labor Day generally involved barbecues in the backyard, while Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas were celebrated with large feasts inside. Birthdays were also often held at Grandma’s house, although few outside of Grandma’s household and the birthday person’s immediate family typically attended. Grandma would spend hours before anyone ever even showed up preparing for the parties, slaving away in her kitchen, making sure everything was cooked to perfection.

One of my favorite memories of my Grandma’s house is the annual Christmas party, one of her most long running traditions. Every year, on the Saturday preceding Christmas, every grandchild and great grandchild gathers at her house for a day of fun. The only rule is that parents are not allowed to attend past the second or third year of their first child, so that the kids may be able to fully enjoy themselves at the party. Each year, she and Susan would provide a craft for us all to work on, often wreaths, Christmas sweatshirts, snowman-related items, or otherwise, teaching us a new silly song as we worked. Following this, they would bring out gingerbread men and tubes of frosting to decorate them with. It has become something of a tradition for us to compete at who could stack their frosting the highest. After a brief reprieve, dinner would be served, often pizza. The party would be wrapped up as we all gathered to watch a movie together.

When I was eleven, we moved from our house two blocks away from Grandma’s house, and settled in a new house in South Weber, putting an hour’s driving distance between us. Our visits to see Grandma became more and more infrequent. This was hard for me for quite some time, as she had been a constant figure in my life for the entire first decade. My brother and I took every opportunity we could to come down and see her. Years passed, and I still hold on to a strong relationship with her.

In the year before Grandpa's death, things became more difficult for her, as her husband Leon’s health rapidly decreased, culminating in his passing in September of 2014. As he went in and out of the hospital, and Susan spent much of the day teaching, Grandma found herself alone often. I took up the habit of calling her every day after I got home from school and giving her something to talk to. It’s funny how roles change. Years ago, she sat silently listening to me talk for hours, and now, the reverse seems to be true. During our phone calls, I don’t say very much. I just let her talk to me, giving simple responses in return. I would tell her what my class lineup of the day was. She would question me about the subject material covered, and I would give a short response. Often my response would excite her enough to tell me a bunch of things that she knew on the subject. During spring semester, I took an archaeology class. Grandma had always loved archaeology, and this class especially thrilled her to talk about.

Throughout my life, Grandma Joyce has been a constant rock and presence to me. No matter what I did in my life, she never showed anything but love and concern. That’s not to say she never got cross with me, as she often had to lay down the law if I did something really bad, but she always managed to do it in such a way that I knew that my actions hadn’t changed the way she felt about me. I was still her little boy, and I always would be. 

Thanks for reading. Follow me for more.