I hear my phone ping one morning. It is a text from someone listed in my contacts as "Sam X." The text reads:
"Hi Aaron, (I hope this is still your number). This is Sam, your old neighbor on 2nd South in Centerville. I need to run something by you in person if that's possible. Maybe I could swing by some time or meet somewhere. I'll just need a couple of minutes of your time if that's doable. Hope all is well with you and family."
My mind does that rapid rewind to calibrate with the past. Oh yeah. Sam. Super friendly guy from my old neighborhood. Warm, easy to talk to. The kind of neighbor you always meant to visit more than you did.
Obviously, our contact had not been frequent — he didn't even know I had moved away over two years ago. A small flash of guilt. Dang. I should have said goodbye.
The odds of getting a text from Sam were low to begin with. We were friendly but not close. Most of what existed between us came from my side — dropping by, inviting him to things, letting my boys help him with his yard. He was always genuinely glad to see me. But he never initiated. Which is why this text was interesting. He needed to see me in person. That was particularly interesting.
I called him back immediately, told him about our move, caught up quickly. Then I asked how I could help.
He told me simply and humbly that he had spent a lot of time during the past year reflecting on his life, his kids, and his standing with God. This was not a religious man. He was not part of my faith, though he occasionally joined us for social activities or service projects. But the part about his standing with God — that struck me. That he was worried about it.
I made a quiet mental note: When was the last time I was worried about my standing with God?
He continued. "Aaron, I need to clear something up that has been on my conscience for a number of years." I scanned the memory banks quickly. Nothing surfaced. He said: "I made a comment once when you were over for an Easter breakfast — I made a glib remark about you're not having a job at the time, which was disparaging to you in front of others. I have regretted it ever since. I want to tell you that I am sorry."
I remembered vaguely something like that. I didn't remember feeling poorly about it at all. He hadn't known me well enough yet and hadn't really meant anything by it.
I told him quickly — it had no effect on me, I barely remembered it, and I would love for him to forget it ever happened. I thanked him for his courage in calling.
What happened next inside me I wasn't expecting.
I felt a glimpse — just a small moment — of what it might feel like to be Christ. To want immediately, with great energy and great love, to help someone unburden themselves. To want desperately for the weight to just be gone. What He did in that garden so many years ago was exactly this — enabling us to let go, permanently, of the things we carry that were never meant to be permanent.
I almost felt frantic for Sam to never think about this again. I cannot remember being happier to help someone feel lighter. Imagine carrying that for ten years. Maybe you have. I know I have.
"We cannot repent for someone else. But we can forgive someone else, refusing to hold hostage those whom the Lord seeks to set free." — Neal A. Maxwell
It made me think — what if I had been offended by that comment all those years ago? What if I had loaded my own back with unnecessary rocks, nursing that dissatisfaction, letting it canker quietly? I could have been bitter. I could have been hateful. And if I had been that Aaron — would I have accepted his apology? Would I have been able to let go? Would I have even wanted to?
I don't see enough Sam X's in the world right now. People willing to look someone in the eye and put something down. I see the opposite more often — hurt held onto, dissatisfaction kept alive, forgiveness offered in words but never really released. We know which ones those are, don't we. The poisoned apples we keep reaching for. They only hurt us. They only add weight. And yet our grip can be so tight.
We are weak and feeble and terribly insecure, aren't we. But I don't think that makes us bad. It just means we can't do it alone. We need each other. We need a Redeemer. We have one.
Sam's stature grew enormously to me from that one phone call. Here was a man living according to his conscience — not because any religion required it of him, but because he knew it was right. I reminded him that he was following the admonition of the Savior almost to the letter, and how pleased God must be with him.
Yes, he inspired me.
And here is the thing I have sat with ever since. I needed that call just as much as he did. Maybe more. Because Sam didn't just come to be forgiven. He came to remind me what it looks like when someone decides the weight isn't worth it anymore. When someone chooses, quietly and without fanfare, to put it down.
I want to be that person. I think we all do.
I knew it the moment I hung up the phone — Sam called me to unburden himself. And somehow, without either of us planning it, I walked away lighter too.
Isn't that the miracle of it. It cures in both directions.
