3-14-19 FIGHT

When our daughter Annie and her husband Jordon decided to take a job promotion that would move them back to Utah from Washington, we were ecstatic. Even more amazing was their decision to purchase a house right in our hometown of Farmington. The house they chose happened to be one of my favorite homes on a sweet little culdesac just under Flag Rock at the base of the foothills in central Farmington. It is a lovely traditional home with a welcoming covered front porch where the Creer’s, the previous owners, hung American flag bunting between the tall white pillars on the 4^thof July.

The home sits comfortably on a large grassy lot with a healthy raspberry patch out back and plenty of trees to explore and climb. John and MaryAnn Creer are friends; good, kind people about our age. They raised their family in this home, and there's a lot of love in its history. When John passed away two years ago, Mary Ann moved into the city to a place that required less upkeep. That's when Annie and Jordon bought the home.

Before they closed on the house, we visited with the Creers. Their son, Mark was visiting, and we had a nice chat about the old days - growing up in the foothills of Farmington, playing little league, and going to Farmington Jr High. Mark told me then about the first time he knew of John Connors, our oldest and only son. Mark said he was in eighth or ninth grade at Farmington Junior, the same grade as our son, only they didn’t really know each other. One day Mark walked out of the school doors at the end of the school day, and as he opened the door he heard united chanting from a large crowd that had gathered in the courtyard. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” the throng shouted in unison, throbbing with testosterone pumping through adolescent veins. Mark worked his way into the outer edge of the circle to see what was happening.

Two guys shifted in and out of the center of the circle, their hands clenched in angry fists, their chests pushing forward and then retrieving. Each boy had a little band of supporters, egging them on, calling for them to go let the other guy have it. The rest of the periphery simply chanted “Fight”, curious, as humans are, to watch people hurt each other. Mark said he watched in silence. Then from the outer edge of the circle someone yelled, "Stop!" He turned and watched as a brown-haired boy wearing a tie dyed shirt and a pair of Gramicci hiking pants pushed his way through the crowd and planted himself between the two boys, his arms out against both of them, his chest firm. He turned his head back and forth, calling to both boys, speaking only to them and not to the crowd.

“Hey man, you do not have to do this. Really.” His presence broke the electric thread that buzzed between the enemies. They were, Mark said, frankly stunned that someone would jump between them in the heat of the moment. Mark said he asked who that was, because he could not see him from his vantage point, and they said, “That’s John Connors.” Mark said one of the fighters turned away, and the other followed suit. The circle surrounding them broke up and the crowd dispersed. Mark said he watched John pick up his backpack and throw it over his shoulder and walk away. No fanfare. No cheering crowd. No punches thrown. No blood, and no pride lost. Mark said from that day he has had a sort of reverence for John. He couldn’t imagine having the courage to step into that circle.

A story like that does a mama-heart good. I’m not even sure if Johnny would recall that event. But Mark did, and he said he has used that story through the years when he has taught Sunday lessons to young men and old. 

Johnny Connors has a God-given gift with people. He likes people, and he has an unusual amount of natural empathy for them. It’s what makes him a good teacher, a friend to the friendless, and a champion of the underdog.  It also breaks his heart. It’s, no doubt, what led him to a degree in Philosophy. It’s why he has taught the same group of kids at church every Sunday for the last three years, moving up with his class, because the dynamics of the individuals in that class make it hard to find willing teachers. 

John Connors is a passionate man. He feels the feels with depth, good and bad, and he gets frustrated like the rest of us. He would be the last person to tell you about stopping a fight. He would not even tell us he had been called to be an assistant to the president on his mission, a calling he held roughly half his mission in England and Wales. It was months before we finally figured it out. I'm his mom, and I don't know half of what he's accomplished. He will talk himself out of credit he deserves. Even talk others out of giving it to him. The mama bear in me thrusts her head forward and feels the claws coming out. But the cub reminds me he’s his own grown bear now, and he can take care of himself. And so, I take a deep breath and slowly lumber back to my den, hoping he will use his smarts as much as he uses his heart. 
In the end, if I were to grant any of my children a strength, it would be the one that manifests in the heart first, and then the brain. He’ll hand the goods and the glory to someone else, even when he has earned it with his own hard work. He’ll throw his figurative backpack over his shoulder and walk away with a pure heart and a clear conscience. And for that, he is rich. 
And because he is mine, so am I.

He's remarkable
(but he won't tell you that.)

My oldest and his oldest -
John and Sophie.

Team Connors.