Squid Ink Incorporated

I very rarely post anything that isn’t in some way a fiction, I normally enjoy writing stories that (hopefully) leave the reader with something to think about, maybe even alter the way they look at the world. For a change I am posting something that is autobiographical, but retains the same aims.

Today I was faced (as I have been every year for some years now) with six teenage boys, hair cropped short, regulation white shirt and black trousers, ready to embark on their two years service as missionaries. As I looked at the boys nervously clutching their box of pamphlets, I was reminded of me at their age. I remember that feeling of excitement mixed with the feeling of nausea at the pit of my stomach. Recalling that particularly uneasy feeling, I decided to tell the boys a story of my early days in the mission in an attempt to lift their spirits. I told them of the event that, not only helped me understand the great things one can achieve as a missionary, but also shaped the rest of my life.

Seeing the look on their faces after I told my story, I thought perhaps I should write it down to share with others, so I’m posting it here on my blog. I hope you enjoy it and maybe you might like to send a link to anyone in the community that you think might benefit from it.

At the time I was at college, living in a shared dorm. In the room next door to me was a student from Bavaria (I forget his name now, which is terrible I know). Things weren’t going so well for him, he was flunking class and homesick, he would go days without leaving his room. I remember he would always play Smiths songs over and over; the sound of ‘Hatful of Hollow’ would drift through the thin walls well into the night.

After my neighbor hadn’t turned up to class for a couple of weeks, I thought I would drop by. I was eager to do a good deed by lending an understanding ear and perhaps even share some of the teachings with him to help ease his troubles.

After knocking for quite some time he eventually came to the door. Although I don’t remember his name, I will never forget the way he looked, hair tousled, dirty clothes thrown around his skinny frame and heavy bags under his eyes. His room was bare save for a mattress, a pile of dirty clothes and take out cartons.

I had been studying the ‘Miracle of the Seven Sisters’ at the time. Considering the stutter I had as a teenager the ‘ssstory of the ssseven ssssissters’ wasn’t the most dynamic one I could have told, but I managed to get through it fast enough not to stumble over my words too much.

He listened politely, but didn’t seem very interested. However, when I reached the part of the story about the fifth sister, how she at her time of greatest personal success, had sacrificed so much for her sisters, his ears seemed to perk up.

When I parted with him that evening, the record stylus was slowly cutting a groove into the label in the centre of the Smith’s album, so I knew I had made an impression of sorts.

When I was told that he wouldn’t be returning to class I became very worried that my teachings had fallen on deaf ears, or worse still I had led him down the wrong path altogether. I feared for him and even added him to my nightly prayers.

I found out that the very day after I had talked to him, he had returned home to Bavaria. It turned out that he had several sisters himself, and his mother, alone after his father’s death, had been taken ill. Although I will never know for sure, I felt my teachings had helped him to make the decision to return home to care for his family.

It was this event that led to me moving into the community full time and some years later, taking the role of supervisor for the young missionaries. Not only had the miracle of the seven sisters had an effect on my neighbor, but also myself and (I hope) the many young missionaries that have been in my care since my graduation.