"Where is the man that is free from vanity?" - Joseph Smith
I have always liked this quote. As I grow older and hopefully wiser, I seem to see vanity more and more. I see it more in others, and more in myself.
I would like to tell you a story. When I was a missionary in France I served in a small area called Rodez. Rodez had a small branch with 10 or 20 active members. The Branch President and the Elders Quorum President kept the small congregation together.
This was perhaps the most difficult area of the mission (for me, certainly). We were alone, the closest missionary peers were an hour away by train. The Mission President rarely visited. The membership struggled. We were on our own. I used to joke that, like the earth being the farthest planetary body from the home of God and therefore receiving little light (is this true or Mormon myth?), Rodez was far from the mission home and likewise was almost forsaken.
Anyways, the Branch President, explained to me once I became the senior companion, that every year the missionaries performed a skit or play for the members at Halloween and Christmas. I am not much of an actor and neither was my companion, so I suggested we play some sort of game. Oh no, said he, "it's tradition, you will do a skit."
I tried to talk him out of this several times, but he was determined that we would perform a skit. I put off the responsibility as long as I could, because I had no idea where to even start with such an assignment. I tried to discuss it with my companion, he didn't really care, wasn't worried, wasn't going to put any thought into it. I felt that I had to deliver something, so I became more and more nervous about this.
Let me give you some background about me, I don't act. It makes me uncomfortable, really, really uncomfortable. I remember church functions where we were required to perform skits, I would freeze when it was my turn to perform some funny thing. I was really terrified. I could barely utter sound, usually it would come out in grunts or I would bury my face in my hands or some other physical shrinking from the task.
Finally, we were about a week or two before Christmas and it was time to start doing something, or it would be too late, we would show up, the Branch President would announce a skit performed by the missionaries and we would have nothing. I asked if we could perform the story, "A Christmas Carol", by Charles Dickens. Turns out that the French don't know this story. This was a relief because I felt that it was a story worth telling. So, I had an idea that I liked, this gave me the confidence (misguided perhaps) to get to working on the play. First, I had to translate the story. This was not easy, but ultimately I came up with a simple translation.
Then we had to assign parts, create costumes and sets, and rehearse the play. The Branch President had made it clear that this would be quite a production. Guess who got the part of Scrooge . . . that's right, it was me. I was the star performer. Mercifully, I couldn't fret about it too much because I was too busy putting everything together. We got some missionaries from the town an hour away to come and help us, but there are too many characters and too many parts in Christmas Carol to pull it off with just 4 missionaries, so we recruited some of the members and eliminated some of the parts. Can you guess where this is headed?
One of our recruitees was a member named 'Gaby.' Gaby was beloved by all who knew him, and he was mentally handicapped. He loved to perform. He was a very large man, larger than me, for a Frenchman that's big. He played the Ghost of Christmas Present. My companion played somebody, I don't remember now, Jacob Marley or Bob Cratchet, maybe. The other missionaries played the Ghosts of Christmas Past and Future. I don't remember who played Tiny Tim, and I think we had eliminated all the other characters.
Our costumes were random selections from some elderly woman's chest of drawers. We bought some streamers or something to satisfy the decoration requirement that we were given. My translated and adapted script abridged the story such that it fit into about 15 minutes of stage time. Again, I am not a drama person, and I guess part of me wishes that I was because of all the scenarios into which I could be forced, this is perhaps the most threatening to my ego.
Can you guess what happened? This is not movie, remember, it's real life. Most of this was put together in "pure survival, we need anything as a costume, anything as a set, and we should probably eliminate Scrooge's family back story because we don't have enough actors to play them" mode.
It was exactly the disaster you would expect from such a set up. The story was lost in the translation, the acting, and the abridgments to the script. Four missionaries and a mentally challenged behemoth dressed in old lady's clothes didn't help either, I'm guessing. It was just a random collection of poorly translated french phrases strung together and spat out in monotone, barely comprehensible, American-accented French. Probably the worst part was that it made no sense. The beauty of the story was lost.
However, at the time, I didn't think the worst part was that the message was obscured, to me the worst part was that I was being forced to present myself to others in a way that made me feel squirrely, insecure, incompetent, and idiotic. I didn't want to portray Scrooge, and being forced into it, made me more anxious and more sensitive to criticism about my performance. It was, actually, the most humiliating experience of my life. You may think I am exaggerating. After all, who cares what 20 french people, that I will likely not see again, think about me? It didn't really matter, though. Whether is was 200 of my closest friends, or 20 complete strangers, it was being forced to face my own ineptitude that humiliated me. For the most part, I just recited my lines, but towards the end, it was my responsibility to emote the pain of a damned soul, one who is brought to face his own actions, recognize that he had squandered his life in the pursuit of material things. Then, in an instant, Scrooge wakes to find that he still has time, I had to portray the elation of a second chance, an opportunity to act better in light of real knowledge. I had to act, and I hated it. I failed completely, and that to me was excruciating. I had gotten into the habit of avoiding such scenarios, those that threatened my vanity. Now I was thrust into it, to face myself, and my utter failure.
Well, when the play (travesty) was finished I emotionally froze up for a few hours, not daring to reflect upon my performance. I couldn't handle the self-condemnation that would inevitably follow my failure. However, after I got over this initial shock, something strange happened. I realized that I sucked that night, that everyone knew it, and that . . . it was OK. I was OK. I didn't have to be a good actor to be valuable, didn't have to impress people to have a right to interact with them, didn't have to be good at things to be good. For a couple of hours, I let go of my ego. I was amazed. I had never even considered the idea that I didn't have to be awesome in order to have a right to be a part of the social strata.
This didn't change my life, it just opened my eyes. My ego came back, my fears and my vanity. But, I learned something that hopefully will change me.
Why do I share this now? Well, humiliation is my daily bread, or so it feels. I realized that I am having to face myself now, as I try to convince other people I'm worth hiring. I hate that. I don't like to present myself to those that are antagonistic to me, to sell myself to the unconvinced. I avoid it, almost always. But, why do I avoid it? What's at stake? My ego is all.
How many opportunities lost in order to protect that fragile dominatrix? How much experience forfeit, to avoid a bruised ego? How much life unlived, for something that when it's really examined reveals itself to be of no worth? I included the quote by Joseph Smith at the beginning because I am not the only one with an ego. I find comfort in this, but I shouldn't. I should just lay down my monkey, and live.
Lake Martha:
Lake Mary and fishers:
Lake Mary, this one is the largest, I just didn't get a good photo:
Meet Sam. He is no longer with us (he went back to the Pit from whence he came). But, during his brief escape from hell, he was voted the ugliest dog several years in a row (I know, hard to believe).
This picture of Jesus from a coloring book is one of the top stories on digg.com today. Traci has had it on her blog now for a couple weeks. The thing about it is, it gets funnier and funnier to me. Each time I think about it, I enjoy it more.
