I come to you all in a very heighten state of utter frustration. Since I can remember I have been taught the principle of service. I have been taught to help those in need, lift up the weary and feed the hungry. However, today I learned another part of service...the part they don't really teach you in Relief Society.
Yesterday, after talking to a girl in my ward, who has had a very rough month, I decided to make her dinner tonight. Being the suspect cook that I am, I decided on an easy recipe of homemade mac and cheese and set off to change the world. After screwing up the recipe (mind you this recipe is for idiots) and dumping the entire thing down the drain I should have known this was not going to be a good idea. Finally, after a quick restart, I dumped the concoction in a pan, covered it, wrote a nice note (yes, I'm amazing) and set off to...well, change the world.
As I was pulling out of my driveway (which has a slight incline) the concoction started to seep out of the pan and into my car. Now this is the only part I'm proud of...I didn't swear. Not even one word. (That will actually come later). I did scream and beat up my steering wheel - but no choice expletives. Now that my car was smelling like cheese and milk, I pulled over, pulled the pan out of the car and took it back into my apartment. Because I was dropping it off I didn't cook it all the way (hence, the seepage) and so now I decided to cook it so it would be easier to transport. Thirty minutes later and slightly deflated, I packed the pan up again and headed off to her house.
After a "quick" stop to pick up a chicken at the most geriatric store I've ever been in (I swear every person in there was buying prune juice, depends and using every coupon they had found in the Sunday paper). Anyway, with the chicken in my car, the warm mac and cheese in my pan I thought I had finally done it. I pulled up to the compound (Dan and I's nickname for the place our ward lives) pulled out my goods, walked up to her apartment and knocked on the door. Here's the best part: she wasn't even there. I called her about ten times on the way there, when I got there and when I was pulling away...nothing.
In desperation and anger I called my busy husband and told him of my predicament. I asked him (as my last ditch effort) to check the address and make sure I had the right one. When he said, "201" that's when I finally cracked and said, "Shit, I'm at the right address."
So, here's what I learned today about service. Not so cool. Not what it's cracked up to be. And I don't know when I'll be jumping on the next service bandwagon. Amen.