Welcome to the Everlands

“Toward or Away?”

By David Gailey

Have you ever considered whether you’re the kind of person who runs toward danger or away from it? How would you even know? Sometimes the only way to know is to be in a situation where your instinct chooses for you—right or wrong.

I learned this about myself when I was nineteen, on a mission for my church. I grew up in the LDS Church, where every young man is encouraged to serve, and I was raised with that expectation. When my mission call came—German-speaking, Zürich, Switzerland—I was beyond excited. I’d always wanted to go somewhere far from home and felt like my life was finally beginning.

About a year in, I was serving in Bern with my companion, Elder Sterling. He was brand new—Midwestern kid, great heart—and I was the senior companion, responsible for showing him the ropes. We lived with a member family in an annex with its own entrance. Their house sat on a hillside with switchback steps leading up, the path hemmed in by tall bushes and plants above head level.

It was the early ’90s. The first Gulf War had just broken out, and there was a lot of anti-American sentiment. We’d been warned: speak German outside the apartment, keep our name badges discreet—be smart.

One evening around eight or nine, we were taking the train home after a day of proselyting, when a man across the car started calling out to us—loud, hostile, clearly intoxicated. It rattled my companion. When we reached our stop, the first thing he wanted to do was run.

I said, “Let’s just wait. See if he gets off here or keeps going.”

He got off with us.

My companion wanted to run again. I said, “Let’s walk. Home isn’t far.” We weren’t alone on the street; there were other people around. But every few steps, Elder Sterling glanced over his shoulder—the man was still behind us.

At the foot of the hillside steps to our place, my companion had had enough. He bolted—gone up the switchbacks, disappeared into the annex, the door locked behind him.

I climbed the steps and paused at the top, thinking I’d watch the sidewalk and see the man pass. Instead, I saw his head start bobbing up the switchbacks toward me.

I slipped inside, shut the door, and went to find the owner, Brother Schirm. Just as I got his attention, the man walked into the house—let himself right in. I instantly regretted not locking the door. It hadn’t occurred to me he’d be that brazen.

“Sie haben mich angegriffen,” he said—“You attacked me.” Brother Schirm knew that was nonsense. He told the man he was drunk and needed to go home. They realized their wives worked at the same school. It didn’t help. The man refused to leave. Brother Schirm said he was calling the police and stepped into the other room to make the call.

I stood near the staircase. Next to it slept a very large Saint Bernard named Xora—the cartoon kind you imagine with the little brandy barrel. Sweet dog. She was chained by her bed. I was absently petting her, waiting for this to de-escalate.

The man wandered over. At first, he petted Xora. Then it got rough. I told him to stop. He didn’t. Then he started to choke the dog.

In that split second, my brain didn’t weigh pros and cons. I wrapped my arms around him from behind and tackled him down the hallway. We hit the floor; I landed on top.

Brother Schirm burst back in. I said, “He was choking the dog!” Brother Schirm knelt, pinning the man. The man sputtered, “Wait—wait—I’ll stop.” Everyone stood. The police were on their way. The man left.

Looking back now, after all these years, I wonder: did I handle it the right way? My companion? He didn’t come out of the annex the whole time. At the time, I felt that meant I couldn’t count on him. But had I followed my companion, I would likely have avoided the situation altogether. The man would have come into the home and encountered Brother Schirm and probably left without incident. Without my presence standing next to the dog, the dog would probably have been spared any attention at all. I also could have locked the door behind me. Had I listened to my companion, we might have escaped the man’s attention entirely, having put enough distance between us that he didn’t even see where we lived.

The mind loves these “if only” stories, full of ego and judgment, for it’s in the story that the ego can gain a little satisfaction through its comparison to others. All these years later, the “story” of this event—which exists only in my mind—still unfolds for the ego to bolster itself. But of course, none of it is real. When I let go of the story, I don’t see abandonment by my companion; my companion simply wasn’t there. I don’t see a person harassing me; I see someone, and he’s saying some words, but the words have no power over me.

We can’t know exactly how we’ll respond until life asks. But we can meet what comes without turning it into a self-story—one that relies on judgment and comparison to others. I want you to imagine, right now, a situation that you’re unhappy about. Close your eyes and picture it. And then ask yourself: “What is the story about this that I am telling myself?” Then recognize that the only reason you’re upset is because of that story. And when you stop telling yourself that story, you might see that the power behind the emotions upsetting you has gone away.

Whether you move toward or away isn’t the point. The point is to act from awareness, not from the story. When the next moment arrives, meet it with a breath, with kindness—for others and for yourself—and let that be enough. Thank you.