Gooseberry on Being Human

I ran smack dab face-first into my own mortality today. I wish I could say it came from a life threatening event, or a sudden shock of reality by finding a horrid age spot on my body, but I am not that deep.

For one thing, I’ve known for some time now my beard is getting gray. My body went lumpy and old about the time I turned 25. I don’t like near death experiences so I take great pains to avoid them, and my children, Lord love them, make me feel old every day so that is a pressure I am getting used to (even the fact that my oldest son will turn 17 on January 30 doesn’t really phase me).

I hate to say it, but my mortality was revealed through the fact that I still do stupid, everyday things that I should have out grown years ago. I caught myself being human and couldn’t help but wonder, am I going to die like this? Am I going to work and work at being a better person, then turn around and revert back to junior high just as they turn the ventilator off just after my body has outlived all its warranties?

My darling wife is very much aware of my humanity. She patiently points out some of the rough edges that she would rather stop explaining to her friends. “He comes from Wyoming. They do things differently there,” I’ll hear her say. “Where he comes from, that sort of thing is normal. They just have different standards than the ones we had in my family.”

Once, when we were in church I tried to explain that, although Mormons have high standards, we still act human. “We just don’t swear when we yell at our kids,” I said.

My wife leaned over and gave me THE LOOK.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Let me change that. We don’t swear at our kids most of the time.”

I’d rather not wallow in my sins right now, so suffice it to say that my human side is stupid, and petty and probably more embarrassing than criminal. But the important thing is that I keep trying. I haven’t given up yet. My tactics are not the best, if they were any good I probably would have been translated by now, but I don’t think there is any fear of that happening any time soon.

The most discouraging part of my foibleishness is that I waste so much time and energy kicking myself for not being as good as I should be that I wonder how I ever get anything done at all. If I spent as much time working on my writing or playing my saxophone as I do on repenting, I would have been a bestselling author of books about how to play the saxophone by now.

Once again, there is hope. There is a chance that all those two-by-fours that I get smacked with will knock off enough rough edges that someday I won’t be an embarrassment to my wife. My kids, they will always be embarrassed no matter what I do.