I’ve slept only a handful of hours these past few days. Just got back from a sucessful, yet exausting, business trip to New York. It’s times like this that I get thoughtful and pensive. I question the choices I’ve made and the roads not taken. I’m not one to regret, but what-if scenarios often flutter in my dreams. Perhaps tonight sleep can come bearing little meaning and a hope of forgetful bliss.
Note- One of my former literature teachers, Michael Pyle, an award-winning nature writer, told me that this should be published. It hasn’t been, guess I can’t find a home for it. But here it is-
The wind blew fierce. Sporadic gusts that stripped whatever leaves autumn had so far missed. There had been only thirteen days of actual sunshine within the last three months. The rain continued with unbelievable endurance, coming down at a 45-degree angle against my fogged window. It was the time of the dying. The bridge between summer’s glee and winter’s disappointment. That brief moment when life flashes by in brief explosions of regrets and what-ifs.
I first encountered death when I was twelve years old. A friend of mine, my near neighbor, was hit by a speeding car and killed. That was October. Eight years later, death would once again scream in my ears, like the screech of car tires.
I was in the middle of a mission for my church, with one more year of service remaining. Teaching the gospel of Christ had been difficult at the start, frustrating in the middle, and a hopeless endeavor in the end. But I still preached with a naive hope and an unwavering vigor.
Seven o’clock in the morning and the only thing on my mind was the painful separation from my bed. I cradled the scriptures on my lap, wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and hoped spiritual enlightenment would effortlessly fall into my head like the rain outside my window. My assigned missionary companion, Joe Hansen, hobbled into the room and crashed onto the sofa. We waited for the two other missionaries that lived with us and then proceeded to study the scriptures. It’s interesting how the most tragic of days can start out so ordinary.
Nine-thirty rolled around and the other two missionaries left the apartment. Hansen and I sat at the kitchen table to plan out our day. I had coincidently gone to high school with him. I couldn’t stand him then. He had been on the football team and exemplified all the stereotypes that accompanied that. But now he was different. Now he had changed. A humility had settled into his prideful bones that seemed somehow out of place, and despite our different high school experiences, we became fast friends.
“We have a teaching appointment at noon,” he announced while snatching an apple from the fridge.
“What do you want to do until then?” I responded.
“We can knock on doors, check other teaching requests, whatever.”
“Sounds good to me, let’s go.”
We gathered our scriptures and teaching materials, stuffed them into our packs, and headed to the front vestibule where we stored our bicycles. Even with our rain-jackets we were immediately waterlogged. We left the inner city of Columbus, Ohio, and headed into the Bottoms, an area where the city slopped downward toward the Scioto River. This was where low-income white people lived, or at least survived. Columbus was a very segregated city. The blacks were on the east side and whites on the west. The Bottoms was the most undesirable place to proselyte in our assigned area, but a lot of teaching requests were called in from there. Our church was currently advertising free bibles on TV commercials. People would call the number on the screen, and we would deliver it to them. This allowed us to share our message with them. Sometimes. More often then not they snatched the bible from our hands and latched the door quicker than I could say my own name.
The one redeeming thing about trips to the Bottoms was the river trail. We rode it slowly that day in order to lessen the mud our tires kept flinging into our faces. Lush vegetation painted in the colors of autumn bordered the trail on the right side; the left side was the river. As we stopped to rest, a cardinal flew across the river directly toward us. A quick flash of crimson blurred my vision, then the cardinal was gone, perhaps to seek shelter from the endless rain, and we continued on our way. Other frequent sights along the river were turtles. These creatures had transfixed me from first glimpse. How they gracefully yet clumsily entered the water and disappeared beneath its murky surface. Days after I had arrived in this area we encountered a fishermen along this trail. As we conversed with him he pulled a large turtle from his line. I didn’t know people fished for turtles before that day. After pulling it ashore he knocked its head repeatedly against a rock until blood gushed forth and threatened to spill onto my shoes. He offered to cook us turtle soup later that evening. We politely declined. I stood there watching the turtle’s blood pool about my toes. Transfixed.
We finally left the river and entered the Bottoms. Empty wrappers, drenched cardboard boxes, smashed Bud Light bottles, empty cigarette packages—these were the gatekeepers of the Bottoms. I felt guilty at my own disgust and remembered Jesus had spent much of his ministry in places just like this. Among the poor and the sinners, the diseased and lowly. But I was not Jesus, and I was disgusted.
We stopped to visit a man whom the missionaries had been trying to teach for years. He had company over and we got caught up in a discussion. Before we knew it the time was fast approaching one o’clock in the afternoon. We were almost an hour late for our noon appointment.
We said quick goodbyes and rushed out the door. Yards surrounded by chain-link fences and yellow grass, despite the rain, blurred as we sped to our appointment. Upon arriving, we locked our bicycles together and hurried to the door. It was wide open. We rang the doorbell. No answer. We knocked. No answer.
“Is anybody home?” I called into the house. No answer. We were an hour late and now they were gone. Apparently they had left the front door open. Famished, we returned to our apartment for lunch. The rest of the day was routine and mundane and wet.
The following morning we arose, studied, ate breakfast, and out of guilt returned to the teaching appointment we had missed. We knew a woman at a neighboring house so we stopped by. Her porch was adorned with odd sculptures, hippie beads, and multi-colored pots. I knocked.
“Well hello, missionaries, come in.”
“How are you today, Mrs. Hendrick?” I asked.
“Fine, just fine. Boy oh boy, you’uns must be soaked to the bone. Damn rain ain’t let up a bit. Pardon my French, boys, but this weather makes my old bones hurt.”
“Mine too,” Hansen said with a crooked smile. We stood shivering in the doorway until I remembered why we had stopped by.
“Mrs. Hendrick,” I began, “do you know anything about the Davies, at 153, just down the street?”
She stood there, frozen. Her mouth opened twice without a sound. She stood there—transfixed.
Finally, she blurted, “Haven’t ya boys heard what happened?”
“No,” we said in unison.
“Well, yesterday Mr. Davies . . . he. . .uhm . . . murdered his three little children. With a mallet, just plain murdered ‘em.” Stunned silence.
“When?” was all I could muster.
“Yesterday at noon. Poor kids, but now they’re in the arms of Jesus. Perhaps ‘twas a blessing, the man was cruel. Sure could’a used some religion, too bad ya boys didn’t get a chance to teach him.”
Wet and cold, we rode in silence. I was in front; Hansen a ways back to avoid the mud being flung by my rear tire. It seemed a world of water. The rain struck vertical, the river flowed horizontal, and a tear escaped unabashed, rolling down my cheek.
“Sure could’a used some religion, too bad ya boys didn’t get a chance to teach him.” It echoed in my head. I jerked my brakes and waited for Hansen to pull up alongside me.
“Hansen,” I said as he skidded to a stop. “He killed his kids at noon. That’s when we were supposed to meet with him and give him a Bible.” “I know,” he said, staring out across the dancing river.
“We could have stopped it. If he’d read that Bible or heard our message, he wouldn’t have murdered his kids.”
“You don’t know that. What if we’d arrived during the act?”
“Then we could have stopped him.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Look, the guy was obviously sick. A few Bible lessons weren’t going to stop this.”
“What if we’re held accountable by God? We were late.”
“Come on man, we’re not. There was nothing we could do. I hate the Bottoms; I hate coming down here. Let’s go.”
For days I couldn’t concentrate. My mind was filled with images of a crazed man killing his kids. With a mallet, for God sake. With a mallet.
What if we had done our duty? What a price to pay for being late. We could have stopped him. I couldn’t help thinking we could have stopped him.
The great poet, Robert Frost, wrote, “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.” How does one know if their hands are stained with blood? If their soul is under condemnation? No divine angel reveals it. No supernatural jury, no burning bush. God is the supreme judge. Only God can judge. Only God. On that rainy November afternoon I stepped into the miry clay of judgment. And only God could pull me out. Only God.
At dusk the rain stopped. For a brief moment the setting sun bathed us, cutting like a prism through the dispersing clouds. We stood on the lawn in front of our apartment and watched the sun sink into the west, into the Bottoms. It was an unusually cold November, the trees mostly stripped of leaves and the earth hard and cracked. Soon everything would look dead and forgotten, torn and lifeless. Like the children in the Bottoms. I yearned for summer. For fireflies scampering about the grass like a thousand glittering stars, signs announcing yard sales, the smell of barbeques and the sound of children laughing.
All far removed from this Fall in the Bottoms.
Okay, I’m taking this blog to a more personal place. Frankly, I just tired of blogging about PR and business, I’ll save that for my company’s blog.
So I’m in NY again, staying in Times Square – again. Still, I love this city every time I visit, even if it’s for work only (which is always). NY is in a sense the capital of the world, and Times Square is the heart of NY. Thus, I find myself staring out my hotel window at the heart of the world. Sweet.
By Alex Koritz
Zions Bank CEO Scott Anderson appeared quite comfortable strolling in front of a class of seniors at West High School. Even though the media was situated in the back of the room, the students still may have not appreciated the significance of having the bank’s top executive speaking to them. Anderson’s message focused on the importance of using credit wisely. His mild, approachable manner captured the students’ attention as he utilized personal antidotes, lighthearted quizzes, and props that included giant-sized versions of credit cards that the students held up like contestants at a game show.
The event, appropriately held on National Get Smart About Credit Day, was one among 20 Zions-sponsored events held at high schools across Utah and Idaho—all designed to educate teens on the value of establishing good credit. Utah is now one of only eight states that require students to complete a general financial literacy course in order to graduate from high school.“In light of today’s credit crunch, we are reminded how critically important it is for young consumers to be financially literate early on so that they can make smart decisions while navigating an increasingly complex financial marketplace,” said Anderson.According to the Jump$tart Coalition’s 2008 national survey, only 48 percent of teens knew that a credit card holder who only pays the minimum amount on monthly balances will ultimately pay more in finance charges than a card holder who pays their balance in full. In addition, according to Bankrate.com, one in every three high school seniors uses a credit card, and 83 percent of college students use at least one credit card.
In closing remarks, Anderson announced that Zions would be giving the class $500 for them to invest—in whatever manner they deemed fit. He then promised Zions would double any profit the class made.
Tag-teaming the event at West High was Robert Brough, EVP of marketing and communications for Zions Bank. “We take very seriously being good corporate citizens. Giving back to the community is part of our history, and our success is tied to their success. “
Zions also sponsors Financial Peace University, which includes courses on financial literacy based on material from money guru Dave Ramsey. The bank strongly believes that teaching responsible debt management benefits everyone. If, for example, debt is borrowed and then not paid back, the community ultimately bears the burden.
Celebrating 135 years of business, Utah’s oldest financial institution has braved some of our nation’s worst financial disasters, including the Great Depression, heavy inflation in the 1970s, and the current financial crisis, emerging from each with a relatively good bill of health. Zions Currently operates 138 full-service banking offices in Idaho and Utah with approximately 2,700 employees. In addition, the bank offers a comprehensive array of investment and mortgage services, and has a network of loan origination offices for small businesses nationwide.
From it’s founding, Zions has held unusually close ties to the community. Driven by top leadership, the bank has a culture of service—encouraging its employees to get involved in all types of charitable activities. The Zions Employee Service Team (ZEST), along with other internal service committees, seeks out new and ongoing opportunities to serve across Utah and Idaho.
Zions Bank’s service arm extends far beyond financial education. The bank recently completed its annual Paint-A-Thon, in which employees painted 60 homes across Utah and Idaho, including landscaping, for low-income seniors who couldn’t do the work themselves. 730 homes later, the Paint-A-Thon is running on its 18th year.
When asked what advice he’d give other organizations wanting to make a difference, Brough suggests reaching out to service foundations and offering assistance. “It isn’t always about giving money; time and helping hands are extremely valuable. They’ll be thrilled to get whatever help they can.”
While financial scandals continue to pepper the news, it’s refreshing to see organizations like Zions stepping beyond corporate mediocrity by embracing their corporate citizenry.
Alex Koritz
This girl kept running around and around the tree. So full of energy she made me tired.
The holidays came and went in a blur
Cold night, but a tradition I couldn’t pass up. Somehow the lights add to the sacredness of this place.
Propelling Utah’s Aviation Industry
19 December 2008—
