The Mish: 25 Years Later

Hace 25 años hoy, el 8 de marzo de 1995, un joven nervioso e ansioso pero con esperanza, quien nunca habia vivido lejos de sus padres y de su familia, entró el CCM de Provo, Utah, se puso la placa de Elder Plowman por primera vez, e inició su servicio misional de dos años en la Misión Perú Lima Central. Desde aquel día, mi vida cambió en para siempre en muchas maneras, una época en la cual conocí a gente y lugares inolvidables y traje memorias que aún atesoro a través del tiempo.

Twenty-five years ago today, on March 8, 1995, a nervous and anxious but hopeful young man, who had never lived away from his parents or family before, entered the MTC in Provo, Utah, put on the Elder Plowman nametag for the first time, and began his two years of missionary service in the Peru Lima Central Mission. Since that day, my life changed forever in many ways; a time in which I met unforgettable people and places, and I have memories I still treasure after all that time.

Thaw

Well! The weather is starting to warm up slightly as we move into some lousy Smarch weather this week. But that's not what this post today is about.

Rather, it's a post about our relationship with the next door neighbors. This relationship has been somewhat cool as long as I have known (or, more accurately, been acquainted with) them. They are technically members of our ward but are not active, nor have I once seen them in our ward building. (Editor's note: No, this of course has no bearing on whether or not these are good people. It's just that most of the people in my neighborhood I've become acquainted with have come through our participation in the ward.)

I have, of course, run into the neighbors here and there in the nearly two years now that JB and I have bordered the same space as them, plus the 1+ year JB and dated/were engaged that she lived there before I moved in.

Our encounters with them were often the same; I would wave and/or say hello (like Mom and Dad taught me to do), and the husband would not ever say or do anything to acknowledge it. The wife sometimes would. Often, they would be with their kids in the family car, so I would chalk it up to their being busy with them and try to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Out of nowhere one December day, they brought us over some holiday goodies while one of us was recovering from a medical procedure. More recently, their two little girls showed up on our doorstep selling Girl Scout cookies. Four boxes of Samoas and Tagalongs later, we were having an actual conversation with our neighbors.

A few minutes after they delivered the cookies, JB and I got in the car to head off to a family gathering, and I happened to glance at the husband who (get ready for this ... as in the oft-played-at-sporting-events-song "Get Ready for This") waved and smiled at us as we drove off.

By small and simple things is the lesson here ... I guess? The other lesson being: Girl Scout cookies are still one of the greatest forces for good in the universe.