This one time on my mission...
I spent two transfers serving in a ward where I was almost certain the second counselor in the Bishopric was a robot. The polar opposite of his charismatic wife, Brother D (names have been shortened to protect…well…me) always seemed bored or preoccupied at every ward function and was all business in correlation and PEC meetings. I had no issue with him until his “Bah Humbug” attitude tanked our plans to put together a member missionary fireside in three weeks. In his detail oriented brain, this was an impossible feat. But to a missionary, whose life is carved into 6 week increments, 3 weeks is plenty of time. If it’s long enough to meet, teach, and baptize a person, it’s long enough to line up a few talks and musical numbers. But Brother D. convinced the Bishop it was not feasible and we were shut down. Let’s just say my heart was not exactly brimming with Christ-like love for this man.
A few weeks later, we were invited to their home for Thanksgiving. Sister D, of course, greeted us with a smile and open arms. He nodded from a distance. We offered to help with dinner, but she assured us everything was almost done, so we should relax. Then she turned to her husband, who was buried deep in a newspaper, and said in her most chipper voice, “Honey, why don’t you show the girls your fish?” To my surprise, he put the paper down and smiled. I think that was the first time I’d seen anything but an annoyed expression on his face. “Follow me”, he instructed. So my companion, a ward member, and I fell in line.
I was expecting an aquarium of some sort - I was wrong. He led us out in the back yard, where they have a small pond with three of the biggest gold fish I’ve ever seen. He coaxed them to the surface with food pellets and called them by name. “See the biggest one? He was born in this pond,” Brother D. reported proudly. My eyes darted back and forth between him and the water. The bond between man and fish was clearly a strong one. I personally had never kept a goldfish alive longer than a month, so I was impressed by his dedication and amused by his choice of pet. Then the smile faded from his lips and his voice nearly cracked as he said, “His…his parents… were…uh, they were eaten…by cranes.”
In that moment, I knew three things: 1) This was a truly painful memory for this man who so rarely displayed emotion, 2) I found it hilarious, and 3) I HAD to react appropriately. I put a hand over my mouth to prevent the escape of laughter and cover any evidence of a smirk. This motion conveniently looked like I was horrified by the news. Brother D. looked at me and my companion who was also trying hard to conceal her true response. He shook his head slowly and continued, “I know Sisters...I know…it was devastating.” I could only nod my head up and down slowly with my brow furrowed. He went on to relate the tragic tale. “It was a peaceful Sunday morning….until the cranes came. I heard them and I ran. But I was too late.”
I remember thinking, “Poor fellow. No wonder he’s grumpy. He’s suffering from Post-Traumatic Fish Disorder.” And then I thought, “If he ever gets in the way of my fireside plans again, I’m threatening the other fish.” Fortunately, I was transferred before I was tempted to do so.
Sister Smoot
Texas San Antonio
2006-2008
