Puddle

The day is warm, but still very wet.  The melted snow has yet to find its way down a drain and into the river.  The sidewalk is mostly clear as I stroll home, but I watch my step.  A makeshift stream flows down the hill, first on one side of the sidewalk, and then the other.  I step over the water with ease.  As I continue along, the path flattens out, and I have only the occasional puddle to step around.  I carry on.  Suddenly I’m confronted with a puddle of a monstrous size.  It stretches across two or three sidewalk squares and is at least 5 centimeters deep.  The murky water stands in my way.  I freeze.  I contemplate going further; I want to go further; if I am ever going to get home, I have to go further!  But I can’t; I’m stuck.  I think about turning around, backing away, or calling a friend to ask for a ride home.  I can’t call a friend.  They’d laugh at my problem and say it’s small.  Besides, who would I call?  My problem isn’t small.  It looms over me, unconquerable.  I have to get home.  I can’t.  I can’t get home.  I’m never going to make it there.  I’m trapped.  My vision blurs.  I feel a tear sliding down my cheek.  I bite my tongue and blink away the tears.  There has to be away, I tell myself.  But, I cannot see the way.  I cannot see past the puddle that forbids my progression.  I’m ready to give up.  I sit down and wait for the puddle to dry up.  It might take days and I am helpless.  A sudden wind comes upon me, causing me to shudder.  I can’t stay here.  I can’t wait for things to change.  I have to do something.  Tears are sliding down my cheek again.  They’ll only make the puddle bigger.  I have to do something.  I stand up in search for another way around.  On either side of the puddle, the grass is saturated with water, marshland.  Walking there would be no better than walking through the puddle itself.  I look up at the sun, feel its warmth against my face and push aside the discouragement that keeps creeping into my mind.  When I look back down at the water, I see my reflection looking up at me.  She’s pathetic.  Her eyes red from tears, her hand clutching her phone, hoping that someone will call and help her along, or at least listen to her complaint.  “I’m here,” I tell my reflection.

“I can’t do this.”

“Come on.  We’ll do this together.”

I look again along the banks of the puddle.  A short distance to the right lays a strip of packed snow that I hadn’t noticed before.  If I can get there, I can follow it to the other side.  It’s not much of a leap, but I’ll have to jump.  I look around once more, but I have no other option.  I focus on the snow, bend my knees and then I’m in the air.  When I land, I left out a sigh of relief.  I follow the slippery island to its other end, and with one large step I am back of solid ground.  I glance at the puddle splotched sidewalk before me, hold my head high and carry on home.

Mormon Pioneers - The Stories that Set the Compass of My Life

I knew I didn't have to go back to camp for camp clean up, but I knew I should.  If I hadn't gone, the consequences would have been minimal, maybe non-existent, but I had said that I would be there.  I didn't want to go.  I hadn't enjoyed camp all that much, and the thought of going back to clean didn't excite me.  other things excited me more.  Having time to relax, write, read and see friends; all of that sounded more fun than camp.  But it was part of my job.  I wasn't finished yet.
There was one problem, one big problem, I didn't have a way to get out to camp.  The rest of the staff were there already.  I didn't know anyone who could give me a ride.  I considered Greyhound, but the only bus travelled through the night, arriving near the camp at 2:50 am.  No one from camp would want to pick me up at that time. 
I was supposed to be there Sunday morning, but it was Sunday afternoon as I was sitting at home on the computer relaxing when I got a text message that changed everything.  My friend... no, she isn't my friend.  An acquaintance, someone who I didn't even know had my phone number, thought it a good idea to text me and let me know she was being kicked out of her house.  She had nowhere to go.  She didn't ask for help, but it was clearly a cry for help.  I thought of ways I could help her and found excuses so that I wouldn't have to help her.  I thought I could let her stay at my house, but my roommates wouldn't allow it.  Frankly though, I didn't want her to stay at my house.  Then I found myself browsing RE/MAX, thinking I could buy a house and have to open to people in need of a place to stay, no questions asked.  I didn't do anything for her; I didn't buy a house.  Rather, I bought a bus ticket.  I was supposed to be at camp.  I needed to get there.  After that I had a nap.  I had a long night ahead of me, so I slept when I could.
I woke up at 1l and rushed to get the last of my things ready.  As I walked to the city bus I looked up.  Overhead was Cassiopeia.  That has been my favourite constellation since I was a child.  I got on the city bus and started talking with the bus driver.  He told me of his trip to and around South America all on a bicycle.  Cool.  That trip shaped his life, it changed the way he thinks about things.  Because of that trip he's more likely to take the Greyhound than fly, because of the trip he doesn't own a car.  As we drove through a rougher neighborhood he said that people in Canada live like they are in poverty when they are not in poverty.  They always feel like they haven't enough when in reality they have so much.
Nothing remarkable happened on the Greyhound.  I decided against reading Just After Sunset by Stephen King, and spent the trip fixing my dreads.  Everything I had with me was packed in my large camping backpack, and I had a surprising amount with me.  I got off the bus, pick up my back and slung it on my back.  The bag was meant for hiking.  I had gone up mountains with similar packs.  Google told me it was 18 km to camp, so one step followed by another, I made my way there.  I had a lot of time to think.  I wondered why I was doing it.  What had me thinking that it was a good idea to walk 18 km in the middle of the night.  One minute I had been sitting contently at my computer, and then I had a greyhound ticket booked.  Why had I done it?
It must have been over a year ago when I saw a video about a Mormon pioneer.  I don't remember the details, but the story was about a guy walking miles every day to go and work on the Salt Lake Temple.  Up before dawn, home at dusk, but it was his job and he was faithful.  That guy isn't a hero.  He was just going to work, doing what was expected of him.  Such behavior should be seen as normal, not heroic.  I didn't do anything crazy, certainly nothing that deserves praise.  I got up and I went to work.  That is behavior we should consider normal.