Living in the middle

Back in July, my home teachers and President Dieter F. Uchtdorf's message in the Ensign prompted me to say something almost deep and profound. Since that doesn't happen very often ("deep and profound" is not my modus operandi, to say the least…) I still remember exactly what I said:

"Humans were made to live in the middle."

In his Ensign message, President Uchtdorf tells about redoing the headstone on his parents' grave, saying, "When I looked at the birth dates and death dates on the headstone connected by the usual insignificant little dash, this small symbol of a lifespan suddenly filled my mind and heart with an abundance of rich memories. Each of these treasured memories reflects a moment in the middle of my parents' lives and in the middle of my life. Whatever our age, whatever our location, when things occur in our lives, we are always in the middle. What's more, we will forever be in the middle."

I graduated from college back in April 2010. I walked straight into a job, and I've been working ever since. But it didn't take long (maybe a day or two) to realize that being single, not dating, and only working for 8 hours per day is draining. I had reached the end of my goals and I was out of the middle.

I didn't like it.

If you think about it, you spend your whole life building up to certain events. You go through kindergarten to get to 1^st grade. You go through elementary and junior high to get to high school. You get through high school to go to college, and you get through college to get a job. Every day between those events is filled with certain actions—homework, extracurricular activities, etc.—designed to help you reach your end goal.

That transition from college student to college graduate threw me off a little because I wasn't really ready for it. I hadn't thought about reaching the end of a goal because I was too busy living in the middle. I like the middle. I'm comfortable in the middle. Frankly, that's where I feel like we all belong.

I have a friend who makes fun of me for constantly being in the middle of projects. He's right. I recently finished making spoon puppets for my mom's Scout camp, and within three days of delivering the puppets, I came up with a fabulous idea for next year's Festival of Trees. That means Mom and I will have something to work on from here until next November. Done with projects? Never!!!

"We're knights of the round table. We dance when e're we're able..." 

I don't jump into projects because I'm an overachiever or because I feel like I need to compensate for something. I do it because it puts me back in the middle. Right now I'm in the middle of figuring out Shannen's birthday present (this famous published author Shannen), editing a book, inching toward getting a book published, and sewing another Tardis blanket and a set of Doctor/Rose dolls. These are small middles—little projects that help fill my time—but they're not the big middles I spent 23 years living in.

Luckily, though, I ran back into the middle—the BIG middle; a REAL middle—a few weeks ago by starting grad school. So far this new middle has consisted of a teacher asking if I'm a right-winger, another teacher telling me I HAD to talk in class even if I had nothing useful to say, and every single one of my teachers distributing outrageously confusing syllabi. That's okay. At least I'm back in the middle.

Forrest Gump and I have a disagreement about life—he thinks it's all about chocolate, but I'm more inclined to believe life is more like a staircase in an optical illusion. We move from one goal to the next, but most of our time is spent in the middle. Once we reach our goal, be it graduation, a new job, or marriage, I think we're instinctively wired to start looking for our next middle. You know that old saying, "Idle hands are the Devil's workshop"? I'm just going to assume that whoever first said that totally agrees with me. Life gets complicated when we're not living in the middle, usually because we're bored or unhappy.

So my life's mission is to stick to the middle—to keep inventing new goals and climbing toward them. Once those goals are achieved (three or four semesters to go, *sigh*) it's time to start finding new ones. (I'd sure like that PhD one day…)

All that living in the middle may sound depressing at times ("WHAT?! You mean I NEVER get to finish climbing?!) but it's not. Living in the middle is a happy thing.

As President Uchtdorf said, "Being in the middle means that the game is never over, hope is never lost, defeat is never final. For no matter where we are or what our circumstances, an eternity of beginnings and an eternity of endings stretch out before us. We are always in the middle."

If I were bold enough to add just a little to that statement, I'd say this:

"Or if you're not… you should be." 

An almost (mostly not) true story: Space camp's grand conclusion

When we last left our adventurous heroes, they had just angered the slavehunter Grooll by refusing to hand over the rescued slave Rooll. Shields were up, and threats were being made...

(Fair warning repetition: Just in case you're a Trekkie/Star Wars nerd who's going to get all upset about my terminology and garbage — I really don't care. Therefore, don't bother… Space camp was a campy mix of Star Trek episodes, storylines, and vernacular, and therefore, the terms are those used in the experience and it is what it is.)

"Sir, he is preparing to fire," the sensors officer said. 

Almost before he could get the words out, the weapons on Grooll's ship lit up, whipping through the space between the two ships and pounding the Voyager. The ship rocked violently back and forth with the impact as crewmembers struggled to stay in their seats. Damage reports began to come in almost immediately and the bridge, which had previously been silent, roared to life.

"Shields at sixty percent!" the left wing tactical officer called. The left and right damage control officers scurried from console to console, while the right wing flight officer went through a litany of red lights, trying to trace the problems the attack had created. Warning alarms squealed and voices clamored in the rush of activity.

"Quiet on the deck!" the first officer shouted. It was a losing effort.

"Do you surrender?" came Grooll's voice again.

"We do not," the ambassador said in reply.

An answering wave of photon torpedoes shot from Grooll's ship and the warnings and alarms on the Voyager grew in volume.

"Transfer all power to the forward shields," the captain ordered.

"Shields at 45 percent," the left wing tactical officer said. "Sir, the ship can't take much more of this."

"Sir, the USS Ranger is hailing us," the telephone officer exclaimed. "Commander Adams said he is bringing the ship to assist us."

"The Ranger is a scientific vessel," the captain said. "She won't be any use here. Tell her to—"

The abrupt entrance of the smaller ship broke off the captain's words. The Voyager crew watched from the viewport as Grooll's larger ship turned its weapons upon its new foe. Explosions rocked the Ranger and Captain Willis ordered medical to prepare to receive survivors. As the horror-filled crew of the Voyager watched, scenes from onboard the Ranger were piped onto the viewscreen. Ranger crewmembers ran along the halls in a frantic evacuation of the ship, heading for the shuttlecraft. Moments later, as the Ranger disintegrated under the power of Grooll's weapons, the engineer gave the grim total.

"Three hundred Ranger crewmembers have been rescued," he said. "Captain Adams was killed during the evacuation."

A deep silence filled the ship as the Voyager crew took a moment to let the news sink in.

"If you give me my slave, I will not fire on your ship again," Grooll said.

"We will not!" the captain barked, bypassing the ambassador.

"As representatives of the Federation, we cannot be a part of slavery!" the ambassador exclaimed, propping himself up against a desk as the ship rocked with another attack. Then, quite suddenly, the shooting stopped.

"Ambassador, show me your cheek," Grooll said quietly.

"My cheek?" he repeated in confusion.

"Amongst the Pennou, slavery is acceptable because the Pennae are inferior forms of life," Grooll explains, his rage still evident in his controlled voice. "We are separated by marks of nobility on our faces, evidenced on each cheek. Now, SHOW ME YOUR CHEEK."

Hesitantly, the ambassador turned his head from side to side, showing each of his cheeks to the viewscreen. The explosion of rage met with this action was palpable.

"You are inferior!" Grooll roared. "AMBASSADOR! YOU MUST DIE!"

"Hide!" the nearest crewmember shouted.

Security officers dashed past as alerts informed them that enemy combatants had just transported aboard the ship. In the confusion, the ambassador crouched next to a station, looking up at the crewmember sitting there.

"Is this real?" he asked, breaking character for the tiniest fraction of a second.

"No," she said, breaking into laughter at the ambassador's panic. "It's not real."

"Get us out of here!" the captain ordered, directing his command at the left wing tactical officer.

The Voyager began to pull away from Grooll's ship as the ambassador hid next to the first officer and Grooll opened fire once more. The first officer told the ambassador to go away ("I don't want to get shot!") while the captain ordered the shield's power transferred to the rear of the ship. The Voyager limped away as fast as the stricken ship could go, but Grooll, caught off-guard by the sudden movement, wasted no time in following.

"Sir, he's gaining on us," the left wing tactical officer said.

"Our engines are losing power," the engineer spoke up. "We were badly damaged in that last attack."

"Sir! We're nearing a star!" the science officer suddenly shouted. His words instantly captured the attention of every crewmember on board, causing silence to descend once more in the face of this newest danger. The only sound the followed was the ongoing clamor of warnings and alarms.

"Stop the ship!" the captain ordered.

The wounded Voyager shuddered to a halt and the bridge echoed with the groans of strained metal.

"We're caught in the gravitational pull," the left wing tactical officer said after a long, painful moment. "And the enemy is closing in."

The star loomed nearer as the ship stayed in place, yet crept closer to the burning mass of the giant star.

"Redirect the power to the engines and get us away from here," the captain instructed calmly. The left wing tactical officer did so, and reported back seconds later.

"I'm afraid we're still being pulled in."

"The shields are weakened from the attacks and we will be incinerated in sixty seconds at our current pace of movement."

"I've been on a ship where we died once!" the academy instructor interjected gleefully. "The lights turned red and we all had to lay down on the floor!"

The captain paused to consider the perilous threat for just seconds, while officers ran around the bridge and shouted instructions and reports to each other.

"Quiet on the bridge!" the first officer shouted. She couldn't be heard over the clamor.

"Use the gravitational force of the star and slingshot around," the captain exclaimed. His voice carried, and the left wing tactical officer hurried to comply while the rest of the crewmembers held their breath. The captain's knuckles turned white as he gripped the armrests of his chairs and waited for a final report.

"Come on, come on, come on."

The whispered pleas seemed to float through the air and hang overhead as the orange glow of the star loomed larger and larger in the ship's viewscreen. Seconds later, alarms clanging, the Voyager turned laboriously. The straining ship pulled away from the star, escaping from the clutches of its gravity and pushing toward safety. The crew released a collective sigh of relief, but the relief was short-lived. Grooll, still on the chase, spoke once more.

"You cannot run again," Grooll said. "You will not release my slave and therefore you must die. I will give you one final chance. Give him to me now."

"No," the ambassador said.

"This is your final chance. Your ship is crippled and my weapons are trained on you. You cannot escape. Return him to me."

"No," the ambassador repeated. The captain nodded his approval at the answer, and the rest of the crewmembers set their jaws in stubbornness.

"Give him to me," Grooll demanded again. "Or I will fire in five seconds."

"No."

"Five…" Grooll said. The bridge was silent.

"Four…" the countdown continued.

"Three…"

"Two…"

The crewmembers held their breath and waited. At least they would know they had died defending what was right. They waited for a long second—a second that seemed to last for an eternity. The final "one," however, never came.

"I've . . .  never seen such courage," Grooll said. His voice was filled with astonishment; soft and reverent. "You refuse to run or give up what you believe in, even though it will cost you your lives. My people have not exhibited this bravery, nor such determination to defend their values. I cannot . . . fault you for standing up for what you believe in. I will return to my home planet. We can learn from you."

"Wait . . . really?" the captain murmured in shock. That shock turned into jubilation as the news sunk in, and the crew broke into a round of hearty cheering and backslapping.

It was an escape that could only be classified as the type to come by the skin of ones' teeth, but it had come. The Voyager returned to Earth soon after, with the effects of the mission weighing heavily on their mind and with a new appreciation for the values they had been taught—values that had ultimately saved their lives, and perhaps, if Grooll was true to his words, the lives of hundreds of thousands of Rooll's kind.

"It was a good mission," the captain observed with satisfaction as the yellow troop carrier returned them to the Academy. "It was a very good mission."