Big Answers To Big Questions

[sprunkner]

Hello, children!

This is a short piece I am using for a grad school application, as well as reading at a national conference for undergrad research in April. I would like some comments on the writing, and I would like to see if anyone agrees and disagrees. Please take a moment to read it.

“The Big Answers,”
by Spencer Ellsworth

As a Mormon missionary, I had several conversations with a dying man. Along with his terminal lung cancer, the man was also a former, excommunicated member of the Church. His skin was like a lizard’s underbelly. Slick, pale and mottled, and his hands quaked every time he tried to move them. He coughed up blood regularly as we spoke.
The dying man told us how, after splitting with his wife, the Church, and his high calling in the Church, he had become ‘buck-wild.’ “Once,” he said, in a voice that bubbled with unseen pus, “I was wit’ a woman and I hears her man coming in after me. So I leaped out the window and ran down the street stark naked!” He laughed, a cackle that became a cough, which led to blood.
My missionary companion and I asked if he wanted to come to church before he died. At least see the Bishop. Maybe get rebaptized. “No,” he would say, “I told my daughter,” cackle, cough, blood, “I told her, as soon as that bell’s rung and I get up out of my grave, I’m gonna pick up a shovel and head for the coal. I’m gonna start shoveling, and I’m not gonna stop.”
Of those famous Big Questions, “Who am I?” “Why am I here?” “Where am I going?”, it is “Where am I going?” that provokes the most touching, and troubling responses.
The first time I encountered this Big Question was in second grade. At the time, I had a great teacher who held a daily sharing time. He would have us stand before the others, pronounce, “Boys and girls, I have something to share,” and share it. I shared my Star Wars toys several times. One of my friends in the class was named Eric. I remember that Eric had an enormous mouth. He liked to eat his cupcakes in one bite.
One day Eric got up for sharing time and said, “Boys and girls, I have something to share. My dad died last night.”
Eric cried and our teacher ran to him. We all stared. Who could understand this? This was so far beyond our comprehension, at the time, as to become a piece of unreality. At least Eric had presented it in sharing time, in a context we knew. God forbid we had just heard about it. We would have forgotten.
The power of a story is an odd and troublesome thing. At seven I was constantly telling myself fantastic stories in the vein of Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and The Book of Mormon. And thus I probably thought that Eric would get his dad back. Or I didn’t need to think it; I may have just had the knowledge at my core. Eric would find a Rodimus Prime to replace his Optimus, a Gandalf the White to replace his Gray, a Yoda to replace his Obi-Wan. A resurrected father to replace his dead one.
Where do the stories leave off and the truth begin? Is Joseph Campbell right, and resurrection motifs are our way of telling ourselves something we already know? Or a way of wishing past our most unavoidable, unearthly truth?
I met Death again in high school, when my six-and-seven-year-old brothers watched our dog Carly get whacked by a car. They would take her for walks, usually without a leash, because we lived close to a wide-open field where she could roam. On the way back, without the leash, she tried to cross the road and it happened.
My mother and I drove her to the veterinary hospital. I remember how brave the dog was, only occasionally whimpering, shifting often to relieve her bloody, broken legs. At the pet ER, my mother came back into the lobby saying that they needed to open her up and operate, and it would be several hundred dollars at least. I knew what my mother was going to do. I never told anyone that we couldn’t afford to operate on our dog and thus put Carly to sleep. It seemed shameful. A harsh and bitter truth of our family’s poverty.
In truth, the shame may have been that I didn’t go into the back and hold Carly, or cry over her body, but just accepted that she would be gone. I didn’t want to make it any harder than it actually was.
My father always read us children’s scriptures, particularly Joseph Smith’s visions of the afterlife. At some point, I must have realized that this was supposed to be truth instead of another story. I don’t remember realizing it, though. And now, much older, I lost whatever I once had. Whenever someone dies, from Eric’s dad to my grandfather, I have looked for meaning and found only stories. Is there something after death? I don’t know. There’s never been a real answer.
I’d like to hope so, though, because the alternative, that we pass from a sweet life into complete nothingness, is much scarier than hell. Plus, it’s a lousy ending. I’d rather shovel coal.

[Metal Vendetta]

It's good, I like it. It reads well and it's quite snappy, with the right kind of mix between flashback and commentary.

Shovelling coal seems like a raw deal though. Bring on the nothingness, every time.

[Denyer]

the alternative, that we pass from a sweet life into complete nothingness, is much scarier than hell.

I find the idea of a god being as vindictive as his 'followers' describe more worrying, in most cases. If I've taken nothing else away from religion, though, it's the occasional person's suggestion that love stemming from fear cannot be termed love.

Well-written piece, although my conclusion is more towards 'wormfood'.

And stories are important motivation, true or not. Underestimating that would be an extremely silly thing.

[sprunkner]

Glad it was well-received. It has been sent. I'm interested in looking at how we often frame stories the same way we frame our beliefs. After all, stories demand a certain level of belief anyway.

[Metal Vendetta]

As far as I'm concerned, everything comes down to stories anyway. Lawrence and Cohen made the point in Science of the Discworld that telling stories is mankind's greatest achievement and everything else we have achieved since is because we can tell and understand stories. If it's something you're interested in, the theory of memetics may prove useful (but beware, apparently Richard Dawkins invented the word) as it attempts to quantify and explain the spread of stories and ideas...

[sprunkner]

As far as I'm concerned, everything comes down to stories anyway. Lawrence and Cohen made the point in Science of the Discworld that telling stories is mankind's greatest achievement and everything else we have achieved since is because we can tell and understand stories. If it's something you're interested in, the theory of memetics may prove useful (but beware, apparently Richard Dawkins invented the word) as it attempts to quantify and explain the spread of stories and ideas...

I'm interested.