Empathy in Little Valley

A bald-headed man erupted from his house. “You just let your dog pee on my lawn!” he shouted across his front yard.
Startled, I turned to face him. “I’m sorry.”
“Look at all these places where dogs have peed and killed the grass.”
He swept his hand across the lawn, pointing out the yellow patches, but some were so close to his front door, I doubted that any leashed dogs had done their duty there, and all the dogs I’d seen in the Arbors subdivision were leashed.
“My dog didn’t make all those spots,” I countered reasonably.
“You just stood there and watched her pee on my grass.” The man’s red face reflected his indignation.
“I’m sorry,” I said, but as Kenidee and I walked away, I could hear him emphasizing each word, “That is soooo wrong!”
“I didn’t know letting my dog piddle on someone’s grass was a sin,” I fumed as we continued down the sidewalk. I was mad, hurt, and, I admit, rebellious.
We finally found a park where owners let their dogs romp off leash. After we toured the park, we followed a dirt path which led by a barn with horses, goats, and chickens.
The horses whickered and crowded against the fence, wanting a nose rub, and the hens and roosters darted in front of us with their heads bobbing.
I felt comfortable and comforted among the smells and sounds of farm animals.
We returned to our son’s house a different way, avoiding the irate lawn owner. I told Ted what had happened, and he said, “I don’t blame him. Urine does kill the grass.”
But still rebellious, I thought, “Is a lawn more important than a person, a stranger in the neighborhood?”
And it seemed like a wonderful neighborhood with handsome houses, swimming pools, and nice vehicles.
We’d come to St. George to celebrate our 21-year-old grandson’s wedding and were staying in Little Valley with our son Val and his family.
Unfortunately, the disgruntled homeowner wasn’t the only sign of heat in the Valley. Just a few blocks away from Val’s, we’d driven by a home with scorched stucco and boarded up windows, doors, and garage.
Later, Val told us that a man, age 41, had shot 150 rounds into the surrounding area and at police. It started, according to the police, with a report of shots being fired inside the house.
After they arrived, they were able to get his wife to safety, and then the man fired at the police and their cars, including armored SWAT vehicles.
He didn’t emerge until his home was in flames. He later admitted to starting the fire with fireworks and by shooting at his propane tanks.
He also confessed to being under the influence of alcohol and drugs, a lapse after six years of sobriety.
It could have been worse. No one was killed or even injured, and one of our granddaughters, who had been stopped on her way home from work, finally parked her car in the garage unscathed.
Coincidentally, after my run-in with the lawn man and hearing about the shoot-out, Ted and I went to a locksmith to get a key fob.
While we waited, I picked up a copy of the Survival magazine from their coffee table, curious about its contents. I settled on an article about how to defuse a dangerous situation.
The author suggested, among other things, the following: 1) Stay calm; 2 Actively listen; 3) and Use empathy.
I considered how empathy might have pacified the lawn man, but I was still upset.
The following day, we celebrated Braylan and Carys’ wedding at the Red Cliffs Temple. I could never see that temple without thinking about my niece, Elizabeth, who contracted breast cancer.
After radiation, chemo, surgery, and a year of being cancer free, the cancer morphed into brain tumors. Before her illness, she ran marathons, participated in the Iron Man, and pushed through Spartan races.
While she trained for the events, she picked up pennies lying on the streets or sidewalks, filling big jars with money.
She had desperately wanted to go inside the Red Cliffs Temple, but it was still under construction when she died. After her death, our family believed that whenever we saw pennies lying on the pavement, it was a message from Liz.
Ted pulled into the parking lot at the temple, and when I opened my door and hopped out, two shiny pennies, a message from my Lizzie, lay waiting for me to pick up. I felt awed even before I entered the temple, and the awe continued throughout the sacred wedding ceremony.
During the rest of the day, we celebrated the occasion. We laughed, hugged, ate, danced, ate again, and took photos galore.
As I watched Braylan give bear hug after bear hug to his friends and family, his dad reminded us of a time we’d traveled to Philadelphia, bought Philly sandwiches, and Braylan, then around 13 and very hungry, gave his sandwich to a homeless man sitting on the street.
That’s the kind of young man he is; that’s the kind of people his parents are. And those two pennies I found in the temple parking lot? Could Lizzie’s message really be to love Val’s neighbors?
So, by the end of the day, I repented of harboring harsh feelings toward the lawn owner.
Who knows what he—or even the shooter—had been enduring. As Henry David Thoreau said, “Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?”