The Fantastic Four

Everyone is special. Everyone is unique. Our differences are what make the world go round. 

Now wait a second. Differences can cause problems too. They cause frustrations, confusion, and annoyance between people. Dealing with my boss? My classmate? That’s easy. It’s my own family I have to worry about. Or my good friend. My spouse. They don’t understand me and I sure don’t understand them . . . 

Why does Jake blow up every time I try to give him advice? 

I know Sara’s back hurts, but she complains all the time. 

Lydia spends way too much time hanging downtown and not enough time finishing her homework. I don’t think she has a practical bone in her body.

Ben just doesn’t care where he goes to college. It’s as if he has no ambition and no life. In fact, sometimes I think he has no emotions at all. 

Ironically, it’s the people we care about the most that drive us the craziest. They often act in ways that we would never choose to act. Ways that make absolutely no sense. 

Why do they do that? 

It’s easy enough to understand that people think differently. It’s harder to understand why. Learning about their temperament—and yours—can help. 

So what is a temperament?

Temperament is not the same as personality. There are billions of personalities. There are only 4 temperaments. And despite their funny names—choleric, sanguine, melancholic, and phlegmatic—learning about them can be a key to understanding why different people are well, different. Why they act in certain ways. Why we think in certain ways. So the more we understand the temperaments, the more we understand people. 

Choleric. The choleric is the leader. Cholerics are ambitious, daring, and love a challenge. They can turn problems into challenges. They have goals and know how to achieve them. They like to debate and are not afraid of conflict. They are good at telling people what to do and have no trouble expressing their opinions. Cholerics are driven to succeed. 

Sanguine. The sanguine is a people person! Sanguines love parties, hanging out with friends, and often enjoy being the center of attention. They love to talk and are generally very outgoing. They are compassionate and complimentary. Sanguines are easy to talk to because you never have to worry about what to say. They are great fun to be around! 

Melancholic. The melancholic is very reflective and thoughtful. They are deeply interested in upholding ideas such as justice, beauty, and goodness. Melancholics are generally focused and methodical in their thinking and movements. They are cautious. They are often shy and usually take longer to make friends because they don’t have the ability to jump into conversation the way sanguines do. Their deep reflection can produce great insight and advice about the important things in life. 

Phlegmatic. Phlegmatics are laid back. They don’t sweat the small stuff. They don’t lose their temper easily and are willing to go with the flow in most situations. Their ability to remain relaxed in stressful situations makes them easy to be around. They are peaceful people who are good at listening and extremely patient. Because of their accepting and relaxing demeanor, phlegmatics are generally loved by everyone. 

So there you have it. The 4 temperaments. Believe it or not, it really only scratches the surface. At least it tells you what each of the temperaments are. It does not, however, explain what they are not. 

The temperaments are not for making excuses. So, just because I have a choleric temperament doesn’t mean I can just talk over other people. Nor does it mean I can sit on the couch because my phlegmatic temperament makes me less motivated. That’s not the point. Learning about the temperaments is supposed to help strengthen good qualities. And learn how to overcome the bad ones. And just as importantly, encourage others in their strengths. And understand their weaknesses—while also kindly helping them to defeat them. 

That’s why it would help to provide a list of the strengths and weaknesses of each of the given temperaments. As well as some information about their self-worth from a temperament book by Authors Art and Larraine Bennet. 

Choleric

Strengths: Quick-thinking, problem-solving, ambitious, driven, daring, goal-oriented, courageous, persevering, determined, logical, practical, methodical, passionate. 

Weaknesses: Overbearing, dictatorial, bossy, unsympathetic, uncaring, easily angered, argumentative. 

Self-worth: Based on accomplishments achieved. 

Sanguine

Strengths: Loving, friendly, sympathetic, cheerful, optimistic, complimentary, open, forgiving, generous. 

Weaknesses: Overly-chatty, scatter-brained, frivolous, distracted, unfocused, tendency to shallowness, easily gives into peer pressure. 

Self-worth: Based on what others think of them. 

Melancholic

Strengths: Reflective, dedicated, meditative, focused, analytical, unfailingly loyal, a keen sense of justice. 

Weaknesses: Moody, easily depressed, pessimistic, hesitating, worrying, anxious, irritable, complaining, tendency to mull things over and over in the mind. 

Self-worth: Based on their own high expectations.  

Phlegmatic

Strengths: Patient, peaceful, relaxed, accepting, kind, non-confrontational, good listener, a desire to please. 

Weaknesses: Unambitious, passive, unmotivated, dispassionate, tendency to laziness. 

Self-worth: Would rather be unhappy than be in the midst of conflict. 

Hope this list helps! One final thing to remember: there is no best temperament. There is no worst temperament. Each one has strengths that are equally good. Each one has weaknesses that are equally bad. Each one is a tool for understanding—and not just to understand the qualities of 4 different personality types. They are an instrument for understanding each one of the amazing personalities we encounter throughout life. Each one deserves to be recognized.   

The Ballet Dancer

So, due to the rather heavy substance of the last few posts, I thought it would be nice to change things up this week. Below is a short story exercise that I wrote for a creative writing class my senior year of college. I wouldn’t advise taking it too seriously, as it supposed to be kind of funny. And yet even comedies have a little bit of truth to them!

Hope you enjoy!

~

            It would seem that when a girl takes the important and final step into matrimony, the boy whom she is marrying need not worry about whether or not she will continue to love him after the marriage. There are two reasons for this fact. First, the fact that the girl even made it to this step in the relationship shows that she must love him or she never would have married him in the first place. Second, by the time that the girl is married, one would think that she ought to remember that either way she is stuck, after all, for better or worse. However, some men seem to have trouble remembering these key facts. And Freddie Baker was one of those men. It seems that Freddie was convinced that his darling Camille would never truly love him. Throughout their entire dating relationship, he had constantly tried to think of ways in which he could impress her to make her love him. Even her engagement ring and wedding present had been the most expensive that he could afford. Now that the two were finally married, he had tried to pick the best and most romantic spot for their honeymoon. Paris. Yes, that’s right. Only the best would do for Camille.

Yet it was not like Camille didn’t show her love for her husband. In fact, they had gotten so many McFlurries together that anyone in the McDonald’s drive-thru would certainly have defended Camille’s passionate proclamations of love. Everyone could see how attentive and dedicated she was towards him. In fact, it was just Freddie himself who did not seem to believe it, though no one quite understood why. However, as people later found out, it seems that this intelligent young man seemed to have some issues with his own self-confidence. After all, he was only five foot four and three-quarters. Camille was five foot ten—at least. Naturally, this difference in stature had always made Freddie feel less somehow, so that he doubted whether such a beauty could ever love a little pin like him. This has caused him to spend his entire relationship trying to prove himself to her that would make up for his—well, deficiency. Now he would prove it again with a magnificent trip to Paris.

The plane ride was long and boring, but fortunately that didn’t dim Camille’s sprits a bit. She was so excited that she could hardly stay in her seat. She bounced up and down and squeezed Freddie’s wisp of an arm till he thought it might fall off. He realized he would have to get used to that—that perpetual habit of clinging to people, particularly her tiny husband.  

Finally, after a long plane ride in which Camille had very nearly flattened her nose from pressing against the window, the two arrived in the beautiful city of love. Freddie ordered a taxi and after a short drive they arrived at one of the fanciest hotels in Paris. Camille’s mouth dropped open at the sheer sight of its immense structure and gaudy lights. Freddie watched her face and couldn’t help but smile. This ought to make her happy.

However, what had appeared to be a nice fancy hotel from the outside did not exactly translate to the inside. Freddie unfortunately had not realized that in his eagerness to get the most expensive hotel he had in fact neglected to get a decent hotel. Even in their suite the rooms were less than presentable. Dirt lined the edges of the carpet in the bedroom. The curtains were torn in several places and the entire thing smelled like a wet dog that had been sprayed with Japanese Hyacinth perfume. The only good thing about it seemed to be that the lamps were too bright rather than too dim—Freddie could not see if the lights were too dim.

Freddie, of course, noticed the bad state of the hotel instantly, but realized that it was too late to change hotels. He had already paid for the stay and the receptionist refused to give him a refund. Yet he didn’t know what to do. He could not help but notice that Camille’s excitement had definitely toned down, and he knew that she noticed the bad state of the hotel rooms. He was crushed. What could he do? Camille would surely think of him as a terrible husband. This was not the first time this had happened. It was bad enough that the sparkles had started coming off the skis he had given her last Christmas. Now it would be over. Freddie dropped himself onto the checkered print couch and fell into a state of depression.

Later that evening, after the young couple had shared a simple dinner in the dining area of their suite, Camille noticed a list of possible things to do sitting on the table. One of these options advertised a ballet featuring the famous dancer Louis Poret. Camille instantly pounced on the idea of going.

“Oh Freddie!” she cried. “Please can’t we go to this ballet? Oh, just think! A ballet in Paris! It would be such fun!”

Freddie asked her when it was.

“Why,” she exclaimed, “It’s tonight! In just two hours . . . come now, darling, we ought to go!”

Freddie looked up into his wife’s eager young eyes. Normally, he would have loved to go with her—and get the best seat in the house—but his spirits so deep that he felt too depressed to do anything now. Still, he didn’t feel like it would be fair for her to stay at the hotel just for him. So he sent for a taxi and urged her to go to the show without him. At least perhaps she can be happy, if I can’t, he thought.

While Camille was away, Freddie eventually decided to switch on the television to keep his mind occupied. After flipping through numerous stations only in French, he finally came upon two English channels which he periodically switched back and forth depending on what was going on. One program featured a dog show taking place in Finland; the other showed a soap opera in which the main character had just discovered his wife had cheated on him. Eventually the dog show ended and moved on to a program about red-eyed tree frogs, so Freddie left the station on the soap opera.

“I don’t see how you could do this to me,” the man on the screen said in dark dramatic tones. “I thought you loved me. I thought you cared for the gifts I gave you. I- I-“ the man turned away his head and looked towards the opposite wall and stared at his mother’s picture. Freddie watched as the girl tried to cover up her actions with lies and weak protestations.

“I would never dream of loving anyone but you,” she protested feebly. Finally, the man decided he would take it no longer; he would be firm with her; he would never again allow himself to be so naïve. Freddie’s blue eyes widened and his mouth stood half open. He had not been so engrossed in a TV show since the first time he had seen Winnie-the-Pooh when he was 4 years old. It was only after the program switched to something else that he managed to tear himself away from the television. 

The clock struck ten. Still no sign of Camille. Where could she be? Surely the ballet could not have lasted more than two hours. He knew that the theater was not that far. She also could not have stopped somewhere on the way; there would have been no point. Besides, even in the safe part of town she shouldn’t go anywhere by herself at night. Perhaps she had met someone who spoke English and had started talking to them. Then again, perhaps not. Perhaps that someone was a he. Perhaps that someone was tall, and dark and handsome—especially tall. And rich. What if he looked like John Wayne? He would never stand a chance against a guy like that. What if it was John Wayne?

Every possibility crossed Freddie’s mind. He mulled the situation over and over in his head. The more he thought about it, the more he began to feel that his worst fears had been realized. He was too short; he was too simple; he was too mild. None of his gifts to her had been realized or accepted. Oh, why had he taken her to Paris? He should have taken her somewhere more remote . . . Alaska perhaps . . . she had always said she had liked Polar Bears. Yes, that’s it! Polar Bears. Maybe he could get a ticket to Alaska . . .

Finally, after what felt like hours, he heard the door open and Camille bounced in. Freddie forced himself to remain calm. Only a clear head would allow him to deal with the situation effectively.

He sat down in the creaky rocking chair and tried to think of what to do. If she had been out with someone, he certainly ought to know about it. Perhaps threatening would get it out of her.

“So,” he began, “What took you so long?” He pressed his lips together and raised his head with an air of sophistication.

Camille could hardly contain her excitement.

“Oh, Darling, the ballet was so beautiful! I only wish you had been there to see it with me!”

She then proceeded to explain the elaborate sets that had been used, the beauty of the female dancers, and in particular the dashing looks and amazing skills of the famous Louis Poret.

“And his character was so—kind and sympathetic and real,” she finished with a romantic sigh.

Freddie’s ears perked up. No, he thought. His worst fears had been realized. So the truth comes out, he thought. A male ballet dancer? Tall, handsome, athletic—that was just it. Not only that, but a Frenchman too! Very likely he knew far more about the ways of love than Freddie did from his Indiana upbringing.

“So that’s why you were so late,” he finally declared with a sly smile. “Too busy falling in love with Mr. Tutu. I might’ve known you wanted to get away from your own husband on the first night.”

He crossed his arms and stared at her frowning. Camille’s smile faded a little but she did not frown. She looked more puzzled than anything else. Then she laughed.

“Why darling, what a thing to say! I—” she began, but paused as she watched him rise from the chair. Freddie began to circle slowly around his wife several times. He put his hands behind his back and scowled. He knew that if he frowned enough he ought to get a confession out of her. Camille watched the tip of a hair sticking straight up on her husband’s head as he circled her. By the time he stopped she nearly fell over from dizziness.

“I know that you love him,” he cried, whipping out his Ricky Riccardo pencil and pointing it at her. “You cannot fool me, Camille Grayson!”

“Why Freddie, I—“she paused and looked confusedly at him. “I would never dream of loving anyone but you.”

That was it—those words. Freddie could not think of where he had heard them, but somehow he just knew that they told him exactly what he needed to know. He would have to divorce her he knew, but not just yet. It was too much for him now. Trying to shut his eyes to hold back angry tears, he shook his head, went into the bedroom, and shut the door. He would not budge till morning.

The next day he got up early and walked downstairs to the lobby where the hotel was serving breakfast. Freddie ordered a chocolate croissant which he figured might help to ease the pain of his loss. He looked around the dining area and spotted a big American football player sitting in the corner of the room. Ah, an American. He would understand his plight.

Freddie sat down next to the football player and said nothing for several minutes. The football player meanwhile sat upright against his chair, slowly sipping a cup of black coffee out of a tiny red and white straw. He stared at Freddie and watched him devour the croissant.

“Girly troubles,” he mumbled with the straw in his mouth.

Freddie paused, his mouth covered in chocolate. “What?” he asked.

“Girly troubles,” the football player repeated with the straw still in his mouth. “You got ‘em.”

Freddie looked up at the big man. He was six foot four at least and probably weighed 300 pounds. His face was set hard and grimacing, and by all appearances did not seem to know anything about girls or love or marriage. Only one thing gave away that he might perhaps be understanding. Just on his left shoulder the man had a large heart tattoo split in half. Freddie nearly sighed with relief. He just had to tell someone.

“My wife has fallen in love with another man,” he confessed, “on our honeymoon. I am distraught and do not know what to do. But you sir—you are a man who looks as if you have seen much in the way of—broken hearts,” he finished, and stared up at the man’s grimacing face.

The football player grunted through his coffee straw.

“I don’t suppose,” began Freddie, “You have any advice do you?”

“Tell her,” the football player mumbled through his straw.

“What?”

“Tell her?” Freddie repeated incredulously. “Tell her what?”

The football player slurped the last little bit of coffee up through the straw and then pricked the straw up with his mouth. “Tell her everything,” he said through clenched teeth, the straw poking out of his mouth.

Everything? What was that supposed to mean? Surely the man did not mean for him to tell Camille everything everything. That would be just—well, it would make him even more unlovable than he already was! Then again, it seemed that at this point he had no more to lose.

Freddie slowly walked back upstairs, pondering what the football player had told him. Everything, he repeated to himself. He tried to open the door, but it was locked. Aha! She was hiding someone inside after all! Probably she had snuck him in when no one was looking. Freddie scowled at the door and began shaking the doorknob fiercely.

“Try the key,” a voice said through clenched teeth. It was the football player with the coffee straw in his mouth. His suite appeared to be right next to Freddie and Camille’s.

Freddie could feel his face getting red, but he merely shook his head and pulled the room key out of his pocket. When he came in Camille was sitting watching the television inside. She did not turn when he came in, so he assumed he hadn’t heard her. Slowly, he approached the couch from behind and glared at her through his piercing blue eyes.

Finally, just as he reached her he took a stick and slammed it down on the side of the couch.

“That’s it, Camille! What have I done to deserve this!? And after all I have done for you!”

Camille instantly turned to her husband. Once again, her face wore a puzzled but concerned expression.

“Darling, I meant to tell you—”

“Wait!” he exclaimed, shutting his eyes and lifting his hand, “I must tell you first. Listen Camille, I must tell you everything.”

“What’s everything?”

“Just this,” he began, “Ever since I have known you I have believed you to be a charming and beautiful young woman, and though I knew you could never love me for my feeble heart and shortness syndrome, I was certain I could make you love me if I gave you the best and finest gifts. I have tried and tried to give you everything you’ve ever wanted and more—“

“I know, and I am very grateful, my dear,” she interposed, but Freddie held his hand up again.

“No wait,” he said, “I must tell you everything.”

Camille closed her mouth and looked at him with compassion.

“Yes, and so I have tried to give you wonderful things and even tried to give you a lovely honeymoon in Paris, except that the hotel turned out to be beyond nasty and now I know I have at least one more point deducted in your love for me. Still,” he paused, heaving, then got very tense, “I did not think that I was so low that even a ballet dancer”—here he pronounced the words with disgust—“would cause you to totally forsake everything I have done for you.”

Camille sat with her mouth open for several seconds. “But—why should I fall in love with a ballet dancer in the first place?” she asked him.

“Because that’s what I should have been!” he cried.

Camille stared at him.

“When I was five years old, my Uncle Harry acted in the Nutcracker as the Mouse King. I fell in love with it—the story, the costumes, the sets, the dancing—everything intrigued me. Ever since then I have dreamed to be a ballet dancer and play the Mouse King in the Nutcracker. But,” he paused and looked down at the floor, “When I tried out for the role at age twelve they told me I was too short to play the Mouse King and would have to play one of the lollipops. I just couldn’t do that.” He sighed and looked back up at his wife. To his surprise and annoyance she was smiling!

“Freddie,” she said, evidently stifling a chuckle, “What made you think that I had to love you for your gifts?”

Freddie only stared.

“I mean,” she continued, “Why couldn’t you think that I just love you for you—for yourself?”

“Well, how could you,” he began, but Camille held up her hand.

“Wait,” she persisted, “Allow me to tell you everything. I love everything about you, Freddie. Your kindness, your sympathy, your work ethic—don’t you think these things matter more than your height? And besides,” she added, “I love your height too. After all, you wouldn’t be Freddie without it.” She smiled. Freddie sat down on a chair, trying to take everything in he had just heard.

“You mean,” he asked sincerely, “I don’t look like a lollipop to you?”

Camille walked over and put her arms around her little hobbit-like husband.

“Don’t worry, Freddie,” she said with a smile, “You’ll always be a Mouse King to me.”

Our Lifeline Home

Prayer. It’s a scary thing. Or at the very least, a little uncomfortable. One of those things that everyone used to do but nobody—or at least, a large majority—never really does anymore. 

Maybe it’s just not you. You’re content with your lifestyle the way it is and you see no point in changing it. You certainly don’t feel the need to add something that you find uncomfortable and pointless. 

Fair enough. To go from a life without much if any religion to one suddenly invoking Divine Intervention is not exactly easy—or even normal. After all, any significant change in lifestyle—whether it’s learning to eat healthy, exercise regularly, or reigning in our temper—is going to take more than a little effort. And yet despite every huff and puff along the way, every mountain has a view—and once we reach that view, it was worth every step to get there.

Now wait a second. If praying is such a good thing, why do we so often not get what we ask for?

The truth is that sometimes we do. In fact, according to a Monsignor that I know, a study came out involving two groups of hospital patients. One group apparently had people praying for them; the other group did not. Remarkably, it turned out that the patients who did have someone praying for them ended up with significantly improved health compared to the group who did not. 

So sometimes it works. But it doesn’t always. Maybe someone in the family is very sick. Perhaps they have cancer. Maybe your best friend started doing drugs. Or you really need to sell the house. And you pray and pray and nothing seems to happen. Why isn’t it working? 

It’s hard to know why God chooses to answer some prayers directly and then not seem to answer others. Perhaps (according to last week’s post) there’s a good reason for not getting what we want. But then again, is prayer really supposed to be for getting what we want? Or even getting what we need? What could we possibly need more than a healthy family? Or a college degree? Or just a good life?  

Even Mother Teresa needed to come to her own understanding on the subject. One of her quotes reads something like this: “I used to think that prayer changes things. Then I learned that prayer changes us and we change things.” 

So, perhaps prayer does change some things. But more importantly, it changes us. 

Jean Valjean also has a prayer. In a song now made famous among Broadway musicals, he asks God to spare the life of his daughter’s lover, Marius: 

“God on high/Hear my prayer

In my need/You have always been there . . .

If I die/Let me die

Let him live/Bring him home

Bring him Home.”

The prayer is reverent and earnest. And though Marius is spared from immediate death, he is mortally wounded at the battle the following morning. Meanwhile Valjean, still trusting that God will “Bring him home,” lifts Marius onto his back and carries the young man to safety.

God did save Marius. Perhaps not the way Valjean hoped Marius would be saved—without extra effort, additional worry, or the added obstacle of running into his arch-enemy Javert. But where prayer failed to grant Marius perfect safety, it did succeed in granting Valjean the grace and courage to carry out his initial petition.

So, in the end, the purpose of prayer never was to get us what we want—or even what we think we need. The purpose of prayer is to improve ourselves—so that we can help change the world.

Or, in the words of Monsignor: Prayer is not our lifeline to good health. It’s our lifeline to God.

We only have to say the word.