<p>Please rate this essay. </p>
<p>Common app essay on failure:</p>
<p>The ringing phone jarred my mind back to reality as I turned from my computer workstation and answered.</p>
<p>“Hello?”</p>
<p>“Hi, Dear,” the young voice on the other end replied.</p>
<p>I stood silently for a moment, unsure how to reply: this was clearly not my mom. Then the voice became familiar to me. It was that of an adult who had stayed in my home for a few months last fall. The troubled woman needed the security of a family. We reluctantly allowed the “intrusion,” counting the days until our disarrayed schedules would return to their comfort zone and the irritating clamour of incessant chatter would cease. I remember so clearly how my mom and I stood at the door as our visitor said her eventual “goodbye”: we looked at one another, sighed deeply, and then remained motionless as we enjoyed the first quiet moment we had in many weeks. Somehow I think that, without a spoken word, we both determined that this sort of “outreach” would not—must not – happen again.</p>
<p>Standing there with the phone to my ear, I opened my mouth to formulate an excuse for rushing off, fearful that somehow this renewed acquaintance would again turn into an unbearable disruption in our lives, but I found myself unable to speak. Instead, my mind instantly went back to another young woman that I saw just three months earlier – a young woman who, in need, reached out to me, and whom I had miserably failed. This earlier young woman worked in a local stationer’s shop, a place that I frequent. At one time, several years ago, we shared a friendly acquaintance, but over time, various events began to drive a silent wedge between us. Eventually, I found myself avoiding her gaze, turning a deaf ear to her complaints and grumbling, and doing as little business in the stationer’s as possible. Then the shocking news came: she had become overwhelmed with the cares of life and succumbed to the desire to end her own.</p>
<p>I sat numbly as Vince Gill’s “Go Rest High…” filled the funeral chapel. I somehow couldn’t manage to take my eyes off of the pale, lifeless form that I earlier could not bring myself to look at in passing. It was as if I were telling myself, “Look! Try to see what you have missed for so many years of indifference! What might you have noticed that could have made a difference in this life? Would it have cost so much to simply smile and speak a friendly word? Would lending a listening ear have been too much for a few moments of time when this one, in so hopeless a state, needed a friend?”</p>
<p>All at once, the guilt, the self-condemnation, and the pain of failure came crashing down upon me, and I determined, amid sobs and sniffles, that I would never again disrespect a human life – however bothersome – by looking the other way. Irritation is often a cry for help, and many times just a caring word is enough to soothe a would-be fatal wound.</p>
<p>Once again trying to pull my thoughts together to respond to my unwelcome phone caller, I decided to listen for a while (in spite of the fear of getting involved again). I even made pleasant small talk. When the conversation drew to a close, I found myself saying, “Hey, thanks for calling me.” And for once, I believe I really meant it!</p>
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