Saying 'Yes'

"Uh-uh. Nope. No. Not happening." I tell my dad as we take our seats at my mom's funeral. My dad had nudged me and told me to 'make friends' with this guy like I was ten. Ha. There's a few drawbacks to that, however. The guy he pointed out sits across the isle from us picking his nose. He looks like he walked straight out of 1978. Maaayyyybe '80. His hair is styled in a shaggy bowl-cut, his thick, combed, very real mustache looks like an animal on his lip, and where did he get those clothes??? He disgusts me. I squint my eyes and focus in on his name tag. Boaz. Fitting. I know the story of Boaz and Ruth, have since I was little. Fun fact, I'm a Christian. This doesn't help my case. He looks to be about my age, in his early twenties, which makes it all the worse. I bow my head to make people think I'm mourning. That's partly true. Maybe it's the anger and grief from my mom's death that makes me feel this way, but right now, I feel as though I would not be caught dead in public with this guy. Or in private. I clench my fists and listen to the band begin to play slow, quiet music. My eyes fill with tears as I hear the words to the hymns that my mother loved. She had a beautiful voice, and she would sing whenever she worked. But the hole in my heart gets ripped larger as I think of having to talk with Boaz. I should be open and loving. I should go over and talk to him because probably no one else will. I should show him the love that I know because of Jesus, but giving my grief and pride to God in public is so hard. So I keep my head bowed, and don't look at Boaz for the rest of the service.

Nearly two hours later, my legs propel me to the dessert table where Boaz stands. My conscience got the better of me. But I'm not ready to talk to him yet, so I casually pick up and nibble on a chocolate-covered strawberry. All around me, people are laughing and crying in celebration, which is right, I guess, considering that Mom is with Jesus, but it doesn't seem right. The real star of the show in the reception room is the food. People stand gawking at the chocolate fountain, surrounded by copious arrangements of wafers, fruits, pastries, and cakes on dainty plates and tiers. On another table, large trays with turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce and casseroles sit invitingly, probably concocted from leftover Thanksgiving ingredients.

Finishing my strawberry, I quickly pick up my glass of water and sip it like I do when I am nervous or angry. The cool liquid slides down my throat, and I cut to the chase, striding over to where Boaz stands. I hear my voice say tiredly, "Hi." Great job there. You sounded like you were greeting a block of wood. Boaz turns and grins. "Hi." I try not to visibly cringe. Though, to his credit, his voice sounds unaffected. "So your mother knew mine...?" I begin, not finding anything in my mental library to help me out, but this time making sure I sound interested. "Yeah, yeah, she's over there." He points to a wealthy looking woman standing next to the guest book--whose idea was it to have a guest book at a funeral?--in a bright fuchsia dress, coat, hat, gloves, and ruffled scarf. I glance at his clothes. They're not nearly as expensive or quality-looking as hers. So either he's lying, strangeness runs in the family, or...I don't know the or.

"She looks young...," I point out and trail. In an attempt to not make this more awkward, I ask him, "So what do you do?" Boaz raises his eyes as if he wouldn't have expected me to ask that. "I actually write about psychology for a column in the newspaper since that's a course I'm taking in college."

"What about it interests you?" Wonderful. Now I sound like I'm interviewing him. Maybe it's the fact that I'm surprised that someone like him is studying psychology. Still, it's gotta be rough for him in that class surrounded by, well, normal people.

"I think it's important to understand why we think things a certain way because what the way we act is effected by it. For example, if you saw a...petunia, what would you do?" This is an actual question.

"I would pause to admire it, but I wouldn't smell it."

"Exactly. You wouldn't smell it because you have enough botanical experience to know that we cannot smell its fragrance. You wouldn't pluck it because you know it to have a drooping, frail stem, therefore it would be uncomfortable in your hand. And if you were to go so far as to bring it home and set it in a dish with water, it would look out of place and dull. Put simply, it is not your taste."

I squint my eyes, trying to understand. Is he trying to be a Sherlock, or is this just him? I nod and ask him some more questions, and he tells me quite patiently some psychological stuff, and never looks annoyed when I don't understand. He asks about my job and my life, and I tell him that I'm a florist, just graduated from UW and living in the north side of the state with my dad, and I hope to be a missionary to Papua New Guinea. We chat for a while, and it's fairly enjoyable. Soon the chairs and tables are disappearing around us, and it's time to leave. I climb into the passenger seat of my dad's car, satisfied that I have a clean conscience and will never, ever see Boaz again. I pull out my phone and begin to scroll through pictures of my mom and I, every now and then my dad or a friend'll be in there too. Silent tears run down my face, but since neither my dad nor myself have anything to say, all he does is keep his eyes on the road and offer me a hand.

It's been nearly seven months since my mom's death and funeral. Now the sun shines clear in the late June sky, and my friend Alexa chatters next to me in the passenger seat about the Midsummer Festival we are driving to. Every year since we began our Scandinavian folk-dancing class in middle school, we have attended for the festivities. I guess it's nerdy, but dressing up in white, wearing flower crowns, dancing around the Midsummer Pole, eating junk food and talking with old friends never gets old. Morgan--sitting in the back--begins a song we would sing at Julefest every year, and together we belt it loud and proud on the trek from our road-parking space to where the pole will be raised. There's no shame for Christmas songs being sung in this Scandinavian-settled town, especially if it's in another language.

Most of the road by the park is closed off, and the street is packed with people. Piles and piles of fresh flowers from donors along with wire and ribbon sit invitingly on the flower-crown table. After twisting ourselves a crown, Alexa and Morgan and I stand in the mass of people surrounding where the men will plant the Midsummer Pole. We cheer with the rest of the people as the pole is propped into place with large painted logs and the music begins. Children, teens, and seniors get into formation around the pole and start the dance. I shoo Morgan and Alexa away to join a polka, telling them that I'll find a partner. Everyone around us sings or laughs, so I am perfectly content to stand and clap along. Until Rorospols--my favorite dance--begins. The group of dancers around the pole thins out, as not many people know it. I feel myself being drawn to the center, but I walk back again remembering I am without a partner.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a figure with familiar sallow cheeks and mustached lips approach me holding a hand out. Boaz. He asks me if I want to dance, and I take his hand, plastering a fake smile on my face. I would much rather hide behind a plate of Viking Chips than be seen dancing with him. I can make a choice to die of humiliation, or I can turn it around and make this outing worthwhile. My dad's words echo in my ear, "Life is about deposits and withdrawals. You get out of people what you put into them." Somehow I have a feeling that this isn't just about investment, but also about humility and compassion. But soon, to my surprise, he smiles and I laugh as our feet move along with the music. My attention is fully on the dance now, and I find myself having fun. Boaz and I participate in the next several dances together, talking and laughing, really enjoying the day.

Five years later, I am still in contact with him. I traveled to Papua New Guinea, got married there, and started a new family, a new life. But still every so often when my husband and I visit the States, we'll stop by and say hello to my friend. Three years ago Boaz accepted Jesus. He taught me to never judge a book by its cover. I learned the value of saying 'yes' to someone I thought was an outcast. And my reward was a beautiful friendship.

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Compassion and humility change lives and save them. Who is an outcast in your eyes that a kind word would mean everything to? Who could you show love and acceptance to, when they may not have it anywhere else but their family--if even? Saying 'yes' is small, but can be so hard. It is always worth it.