Overreaction and the Parable of the Sewer Snake

I consider my rural upbringing a blessing. Overall, the comforts and experiences from country life benefited me more than a person might expect. That is not to say that our rustic lifestyle denied us some luxuries. Unlike our urban contemporaries, my family depended on a primitive sewer system. While most households never worry about waste beyond a daily flush, the Gulbranson house was inescapably attached to a nearby lagoon. Waste siphoned from the house found its way to the lagoon by means of simple tubes and plumbing. For the most part, the system worked efficiently. For the most part…

On the odd occasion, the system would malfunction. Cold winters and faulty tubing sporadically created issues that would require fixing. Seeing as my parents were frugal do-it-yourselfer’s, we often disregarded decades of advanced plumbing science and expertise in favor of cheap character-building labor. These were win-win situations: my parents got the problem fixed for next to nothing, and we siblings learned how to put up with other peoples crap.

On one occasion, the system malfunctioned during one of my parents trips to Seattle. I had hoped their absence would have warranted a visit from a professional. After all, a teenager with zero guidance or supervision could never hope to repair the problem alone. Plus, I was not eager to show up to my high-school smelling like a musty septic tank. But alas, my father arranged for Jared, my oldest brother, to visit our home to help me do the work. Jared’s lengthy experience with the family sewer qualified him for the unsavory job. Likewise, my age and position in the family hierarchy qualified me for the grunt labor.

That summer afternoon, Jared showed up to our house with all the necessary tools and equipment. The main piece was a heavy sewer snake rented from the local hardware store. Together, we heaved the sewer snake across the lawn and down into the lagoon. Knowing full well what awaited us in that lagoon, we walked gingerly around it’s shore, carefully avoid the blackened liquefied contents. Once we approached the drainage system, we set up shop and inserted the sewer snake into the obstructed tube.

The job was simple: remove the blockage from the system to allow the free flow of waste. My job was to extend and retract the snake as needed. Jared held the equipment steady as I dutifully cranked the handle back and forth and back and forth. No matter how careful we were, the job was never clean. Completing the work always meant getting your hands... um, dirty. In my juvenile wisdom, I forewent the choice to use gloves. Gloves made cranking the handle slow and inconvenient. I wanted the job done quickly. So I ignored Jared’s advice and worked barehanded.

After dozens of cranks, the snake extended far enough to reach the blockage. It took only minutes to break up the obstruction. All that was left was to retract the lengthy flexible auger. With great anticipation, I whirled the handle hurriedly. Every rotation brought us that much closer to job completion. Watching for the final length of auger, I focused on Jared’s hands as they guided the snake from the white pipe and into the coiled metal case. My carelessness would end up costing me dearly.

With a nasty jolt, the heavy metal crank stopped sharply. Jared looked back just in time to witness me yanking my finger from the tight coil of unforgiving metal. I jerked back my hand in immense pain, hopping and shaking it vigorously to soothe my throbbing index finger. When that failed, my brain followed up with the next instinctive action. Without any thought, I desperately raised my hand to my face.

Gasps immediately followed my action; first Jared’s and then mine. It was too late. My bare and soiled hand had passed beyond my lips and into my mouth. The realization was as rancid as it was embarrassing. In horror, I removed my finger and frantically spit at the ground. Between the gags and the dry heaving, I continued to spit. Jared watched, unable to breathe due to laughter. The pain of humiliation immediately replaced the pain of pinched fingers. All my family would hear of my mistake, and I knew they would not let me forget it.

In any other situation, such a reaction would have been reasonable. I’ve struck my fingers with hammers and other tools before and reacted in exactly the same way. Our natural reflex guides most of us to respond in such a way. In that light, my habitual reaction may have seemed sensible, if not logical. However, the circumstance and context of the situation made my reaction entirely foolish. 

Rather than react with levelheadedness and pragmatism, I allowed impulse and emotion to exaggerate my reaction. I had overreacted, and I ended up paying the price.

Thankfully, the price I had to pay was limited to a vulgar taste in my mouth and some minor shame. Minor consequences like embarrassment and inconvenience usually accompany overreactions like mine. But there are many instances when our overreactions carry heavier consequences.

In extreme cases of overreaction, we might have to endure disgrace, ill-repute, disaffection, heartache, or ridicule. Every time we freak out, lose our cool, or stew about, we place our reputation at the mercy of other people’s negative perceptions and estimations. Of course, our character is not defined by the opinions of others. But it is defined by our behaviors and attitudes. And as explained by Albert Einstein, “Weakness of attitude becomes weakness of character.” If we are serious about the quality of our character, then tempering our passion and disciplining our conduct become very advisable goals.

However, this type of discipline garners little respect in many societal circles. Instead, our grievance culture urges us to react, demonstrate, contest, and crusade against trendy evils and injustices. Fight back against police brutality! Stand against patriarchal bigotry! Resist income inequality! Abolish big game hunting! These calls to action are nothing more than invitations to overreact, wrapped in misapplied verbs and delivered in an envelope of shallow perception. Sure, the causes possess some elements of truth. Injustices exist and should be dealt with accordingly. However, most movements have evolved past the stages of activism and into the stages of overreactivism. This rapid evolution can best be accredited to the flagrant dismissal of facts, context, and expertise. Instead, the masses often establish credibility, truth, and reality in the form of likes, shares, of digital commentary.

This macrocosm of overreaction would be impossible were it not for the mortal weaknesses of the individual. The large scale dramatics give adequate testimony to our personal struggles with overreaction. We all possess a flawed degree of impulsiveness and sensationalism. Combining that flaw with ample opportunities to overreact allows us to perfect our imperfections. All experiences involving change, confrontation, criticism, and discomfort potentially serve as the catalyst for overreaction. The more piercing or vivid the experience, the more we feel compelled to overreact.

You, like many, might be fooled into the belief that you are above the frailties of overreaction. So, let’s assume that perhaps, on occasion, your behavior is less than saintly. Moreover, let’s take a more audacious step and imagine that you are an imperfect being. Do you think it possible that you possess a proclivity towards overreaction? Would you ever number yourself among the worrywarts, the defeatists, the hot-tempered, or the envious? If you would like an honest answer, you might find it by answering the following questions:

How do I react when my work is criticized?

How do I respond to genuine differences of opinion?

Do I even acknowledge that some differences of opinion are genuine?

Are my perceptions generally negative?

Do I immediately assume the worst of someone?

Can I candidly admit “I don’t know” when I don’t have all the facts?

Do I shift fault or blame without hesitation?

Do I temporarily dismiss my values on account of someone else’s weakness?

Do I stew at the success, fortune, or good works of others?

If you responded to this exercise of reflection with deep sincerity and self-candor, you likely possess a higher sense of composure. Naturally, we must not assume that you have the aura of perfection. In reality, you may struggle with multiple propensities towards overreacting. However, the fact that you were honest in your self-evaluation proves your capability of reflection and humility, both of which acutely contrast the practice of overreacting.

Others will respond to these questions less earnestly. This is to be expected – most of us fall into this category of denial and indifference. In our eyes, overreacting is someone else’s issue. We all like to pretend that we maintain a higher sense of levelheadedness or self-control. I cannot deny that there are some of us who are naturally calm and calculated. But for the rest of us, the habit of overreacting is a major stumbling block. If you are under this pretense, I urge you to remember that an overreaction is not limited to external outbursts or explosions. An overreaction is any response that is made more emotionally or forcibly than is justified. We can react irrationally in hushed speech, subdued thought, and even frigid acts.

In extreme cases, some people might respond to these questions with great offense, recoil, or hostility. If such is the case, we can very confidently diagnose such participants as overreactors. These are the people who fail to achieve a sentient or cognitive awareness of their behavior or attitudes. Disparagingly they will ask, “Who does he think he is?” Or they sarcastically quip, “Oh, he is one to talk!” They will fume, deflect, and belittle; it is what overreactors do. These reactions exemplify overreaction. Ironically, their disproportionate response betrays their own deep fight with emotions and maturity. To such is prescribed a healthy does of somber reflection and self-observation.

The overwhelming prevalence of heartache, betrayal, and mistrust in our world makes this topic exceptionally relevant. What prices have we had to pay for human overreaction? How many problems might we solve if we could approach them with dignity? How many compromises could we achieve if our responses were more measured? How much progress could we make if we acted more deliberately? Can you imagine what your personal life might look like in these conditions? Can you imagine what our world might look like?

I firmly believe that societal change and progress stems from the individual. With that in mind, I feel that addressing our personal habits of overreaction might be a good place to start. I say these things from the position of one who overreacts in every possible way; from the hidden boundaries in my mind to the open interactions in my community. And while my position does not presume the mantle of leadership, it does allow me to opportunity to invite.

Therefore, I invite you to continue shaping your character. I encourage you to avoid hastiness and impulsiveness. The more often you can react considerately and appropriately, the more often you will leave a positive mark in this world.

The Most Important Things

During my tenure as a missionary in Chile, I enjoyed a number of responsibilities and duties. For the latter half of my mission, my companions and I took charge of preparing and setting up venues for interviews between the Mission President and us missionaries. We marked these interview dates in our planners with great anticipation. These were brief, but unique, opportunities for significant and meaningful personal improvement. This being the case, my companions and I took our responsibilities very seriously.

During the winter of 2009, while serving in the city of Villa Alemana, the Mission President again planned a trip to our zone for interviews. On the morning of the interviews, we woke up earlier than usual to leave sufficient time to prepare the local chapel where we would meet. Prior to leaving our small house, I packed my shoulder bag; one personal set of marked scriptures, one study journal for notes, one standard issue “Predicad Mi Evangelio” manual with personal notes, one Nikkon camera containing 18 months of mission experiences in photo, some proselyting material, and some family photos that I would show to my Chilean friends.

I usually did not pack so much. I always left my personal manual and journal in our apartment since they served no purpose in day-to-day missionary work. They were large, and cumbersome; barely fitting into my shoulder bag. But I needed them for the interviews. In their pages, I would record my impressions and the counsel given to me by the Mission President. Prior to the Villa Alemana interviews, I had already compiled eighteen months’ worth of impressions, experiences, studies, and observations. These hand-written records were methodically organized into a system of colors, highlights, and cross-references. I considered my collection special, even sacred. They only left our apartment for interviews or conferences.

Once packed, my companion and I left our apartment and headed towards the chapel. We would have to walk about four blocks to reach it, but that didn’t bother us. Unlike my family, who was enduring sub-zero temperatures in Canada, I was enjoying the warm summer weather of central Chile. We hustled to the chapel, opened the doors and began setting up chairs and tables for the missionaries. In minutes, we had two rooms prepared; an open waiting room for the missionaries and the Mission President’s wife, and a separate secluded office for the personal interviews with the President.

Just prior to the Mission President’s arrival, we recognized the need for one more table. The Mission President’s wife usually brought some treats to feed the missionaries during the interviews, and we needed a place to put the food. Without much thought, I placed my shoulder bag on a hallway pew and went down the hall in search of another table. In a matter of minutes, we found a suitable table and hauled it towards the waiting room.

At last satisfied with the arrangement of the room, we went to gather our stuff and wait patiently for everyone to arrive.

I returned to the pew, but my bag was gone. Thinking that I misplaced it, I retraced my steps, passing every room I had entered. I still found nothing. Unnerved, I asked my companion if he had moved the bag. He replied that he did not. With increasing annoyance, I revisited the rooms along the hall. Again, I found nothing.

My annoyance converted to frustration. At the time, the only other person in the building was a member of the local stake presidency. He left his office to see what the matter was. I explained my predicament, hopeful that he would know the whereabouts of my bag. I described the bag to him as a simple black bag with one single strap, the top was slightly faded due to prolonged exposure to the sun.

He began to explain that he had not seen the bag, but he abruptly left his sentence unfinished. With some apprehension, he then recalled seeing an unknown man enter the building. The man confessed that he intended to use the bathroom. The member of the stake presidency signaled towards the nearest bathroom, and returned to his office. He never saw the man again.

My heart sunk with the realization that the man had no intention of using the bathroom. With equal parts anger and distress, I sprinted out of the chapel. Looking down both streets, I could see no sign of the man or my bag. All I could see was a busy street of cars and buses. He was gone.

All at once, a flood of loss and hurt entered my heart and mind. Eighteen months of personal experiences in the form of notes, photos, markings, and writings were gone in an instant. Those were experiences that I could never relive. Worse than that, those were experiences that I would never remember, at least not as vividly as the moment in which I recorded them. Accounts of personal experiences, happy experiences, sacred experiences… gone.

That was the single worst day of my two year mission. As much as he tried, my Mission President could offer little comfort. The police officer to whom we filed the case offered even less comfort. I attempted to hide my fury with a degree of humor, verbally hoping that the criminal might learn something useful from my notes and scriptures. But no amount of humor could soothe the ache I felt in my heart. I was downright miserable.

When the day had ended, the sting from the theft remained. My mind whirled with angry thoughts and vindictive ramblings. Vainly, I pictured myself chasing down the perp and tackling him hard into the gritty cement walkway. As one would expect, those “only-if” thoughts accomplished nothing. I retired to my bed knowing that sleep would likely avoid me.

My prayers that night turned desperate. I knew there was virtually no chance I would ever see my things again. By now, the perp likely removed the camera, ignorantly throwing everything else away. Finding anything else would be impossible if not miraculous. I miracle I needed, so a miracle I requested.

“At least the most important things!” I remember pleading repeatedly. “The most important things.”

My thoughts turned back to my journal, my scriptures, and my manual. I could see their pages, filled with notes, color coded and neatly printed and arranged. I put hundreds of precious study hours into reading, writing, and linking thoughts, words, and ideas. My recordings were important to me since they represented my personal growth and understanding as a missionary. That didn’t matter. They were gone, and I would have to move on. I grudgingly ended my prayers, and accepted my misfortune.

Pushing the event out of my mind, I worked to replace the items. I obtained a new camera, a new set of scriptures, a new manual, and started a new study journal. In the following weeks, I would struggle to remember my notes and thoughts from the months of my mission long past. That work consumed every hour I had available outside the regular missionary schedule. I began to put the ordeal out of my mind. Our proselyting schedule, interviews, district meetings, leadership training, and zone conferences prevented me from entertaining more thoughts on the matter.

A few months later, at the conclusion of another multi-zone conference, I sat in a hallway with my fellow missionaries. We were taking advantage of a few precious minutes socialize before we had to leave for our assigned wards and branches. From the crowd of parting missionaries, one companionship approached me. While I knew many missionaries in our area, I did not know these two. I only recognized them from one of the workshops from the conference. Their clean unseasoned suits perfectly contrasted my worn and weathered suit, indicating that they were relatively new to the mission field.

The taller of the two reviewed my name-tag, seemingly pleased that he had found me.

“Hey Elder Gulbranson!” he greeted. “So good to finally meet you.”

I returned their greeting and started into a small conversation. They answered my casual questions with hurried purpose. The only things I could learn were their names and that they were serving in one of the most rural zones in our mission. After that, the taller one interjected.

“I think we have something of yours.” He explained, lowering his backpack to the floor.

I watched curiously as he bent over and rummaged deep into his bag. He promptly removed a grocery bag from deep inside his back pack. I could tell its contents were small. My first impression was that one of my former companions had sent his trainee on a delivery errand. This was a common means of forwarding gifts, ties, or other items between missionaries. What he removed was something entirely unexpected.

He placed in my hands a small binding with laminated pages. The cover boasted a proud red Canadian maple leaf. The pages I thumbed were rounded and worn, but they perfectly preserved the contents of the booklet. From the pages, familiar faces smiled back at me; unblemished images of my mother, father, brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews. These were the exact photos that I had lost in my stolen shoulder bag.

“Found these in our ward boundaries.” the Elder continued. I don’t think he was expecting my reaction of stunned silence. After all, they had no idea what circumstances led to the displacement of these photos. For all they knew, I left them on a bus, or with a close Chilean friend who misplaced them. Due to time constraints, I would not have adequate time to explain the entire ordeal to them.

When I inquired about the other missing items. They explained that they saw nothing else near the photos. I released a minor sigh, but remained grateful and stunned. With that, those Elders began their long journey back to their ward, and we soon followed.

My stolen photos.

Leaving the chapel, I happily reviewed the photos again and again. I did not put them away until our bus arrived to pick us up. I marveled at the luck of it all. They somehow made their way along many miles of roads and railways and through a handful of cities and towns. Their journey ended at the furthermost corner of the Vina Del Mar mission where they were found by a pair of strangers with whom I had only a slight connection.The happenstance was remarkable.

“Pity they found nothing else.” I lamented silently, returning my thoughts again to the remaining items.

With that thought, my memory was brought back to that night, back to the prayer that I offered: “At least the most important things!”

The words pierced my conscience, repeating themselves over and over. The realization immediately humbled me. With the divine wisdom that only a loving Heavenly Father could possess, He reminded me of the significance of family above all other things. Indeed, the most important things were returned to me. Cameras can be replaced, notes can be restored, and memories can be recalled; but one cannot adequately value the influence and blessing of an eternal family.

My miraculous experience further cemented my belief that families are central to a happy and fulfilling life. No other institution, organization, or assembly can imitate its influence, replicate its success, or supplant its sovereignty. Within my family, I have found friends, mentors, comforters, counselors, scholars, nurturers, protectors, motivators, admonishers, encouragers, and supporters. 

These roles have been filled by grandparents, parents, siblings, and even the youngest nephews and nieces. Starting from birth, many of us have belonged to a loyal network of individuals who serve dutifully and love unconditionally. Is it any wonder why the family remains the most fundamental unit in a healthy and vibrant society?

My miraculous experience further cemented my belief that families are central to a happy and fulfilling life. No other institution, organization, or assembly can imitate its influence, replicate its success, or supplant its sovereignty. Within my family, I have found friends, mentors, comforters, counselors, scholars, nurturers, protectors, motivators, admonishers, encouragers, and supporters. Together, individual members of a family create an unwavering association whose sole requirement for membership is to be born into existence. Our birth initiates us into a loyal network of individuals who serve dutifully and love unconditionally.

In some circumstances, many individuals may not enter this life with such blessings. Some boys start their mortal life without a mother’s warm embrace. Some girls begin their life deprived of a responsible father. Certain conditions and situations may unfairly deny a child of their right to a loving father and mother. While such injustices fall upon the most undeserving, they do not condemn them to a life devoid of all family blessings. A child may recover any lack of familial comfort as they marry and establish their very own family. In the end, all of us will have the opportunity to enjoy the benefit of family bonds, if we so choose.

Since the family group is made of a collection of individuals, there will no doubt be individual weaknesses. A number of quirks, habits, or eccentricities exist in every family unit. But if you look closely, you will detect trace elements of divinity, charity, and celestial potential inside each and every parent, sibling, spouse, and child. To omit any single individual from the family would dramatically alter our happiness. Big or small, fast or slow, refined or rugged, all members matter.

We would do well to remember more often the things that matter most; the most important things. Mortal limitations and imperfections frequently distract us, sometimes making us impervious to the most important things. However, if we maintain our eternal perspective, we will not lose sight of what matters most.

When you find yourself mired in struggle or weighed down in sorrow, I hope such events stir your thoughts to a remembrance of the most important things. I hope you know to which source you may look for understanding, charity, and love. I know that family plays an essential role to our existence, and that role will not be undermined. I have testimony of these truths due to a loving Heavenly Father who promises us all that He has. His Son, our Heavenly Brother, paved the way for our lasting happiness. Our family, both earthly and heavenly, are the most important things.