The verses that impacted me most this semester:
D&C 58
31 Who am I, saith the Lord, that have promised and have not fulfilled?
32 I command and men obey not; I revoke and they receive not the blessing.
33 Then they say in their hearts: This is not the work of the Lord, for his promises are not fulfilled. But wo unto such, for their reward lurketh beneath, and not from above.
D&C 25
13 Wherefore, lift up thy heart and rejoice, and cleave unto the covenants which thou hast made.
D&C 6
33 Fear not to do good, my sons, for whatsoever ye sow, that shall ye also reap; therefore, if ye sow good ye shall also reap good for your reward.
34 Therefore, fear not, little flock; do good; let earth and hell combine against you, for if ye are built upon my rock, they cannot prevail.
These are treasures that I will take with me forever.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
"Poverty is the Worst Form of Violence"--Gandhi
This is as political as I get these days. Bear with me...
...What is the beggar to me? Jesus first says he is my neighbor (Luke 10:29-37), then ups the ante a bit (after all, not all of my neighbors are sympathetic figures to me) when he says the beggar is himself (Matthew 25:40). King Benjamin gives the beggar a mirror so that I may see my reflection in his plight (Miosiah 4:19) and the image becomes even more clear. I really do know what it feels like to beg. As a genuine sinner I have begged the Lord to take my guilt away and make me new. I have even felt the awful uncertainty that beggars must feel when I have completely humiliated myself in pleading and still been unsure if the one hearing my petition would really respond.
I have also met beggars outside of myself. Gandhi was right. These people have suffered violence. The violence of weather extremes, the violence of police brutality, the violence of bourgeois teens who like to have fun at night (anyone remember that social highpoint of our culture known as "Bum Fights?"), the violence of hunger, the violence of vulnerability (sexually and otherwise), and the violence of social stigma and hate. No wonder these people suffer from an incredibly disproportiate rate of mental illness and no wonder it is so easy to look at them as sub-human.
I remember my mother's fervent desire to make her hopelessly bourgeois teens learn King Benjamin's lesson. We had a lemon tree in our backyard that bore fruit for a neighborhood. But no one liked lemons. Growing up in Southern California, most of the people who I saw picking fruit happened to be a different race than me. This also happened to be the same race that most often frequented the community pantry where my mother volunteered and would drag us kids along to help out on holiday breaks. My mother drank in the brief outpouring of social justice that occurred when her bourgeouis white sons actually picked fruit for their brothers of another race to eat instead of the other way around. After a long morning of picking, we would cram into the van and show up at the pantry sufficiently annoyed and withdrawn to show our teenage status. I remember when the old man cried as he picked through our bucket of lemons. He was so happy to get to eat the fruit he had probably spent most of his life picking but not enjoying. "Lemons!" he kept shouting, as if he needed the echo of his voice bouncing off the wall to convince him that they were really his. Why does he pick fruit that I eat? When will he get to pick his own fruit? I suddenly realized that my lifestyle required his.
Then there was the homeless man in the subway station in Paris. This was not an easy night. We were lost, we were cold, and we didn't know French. We had been stranded in the subway station and the menacing looking man in the corner by the trashcan was making me uncomfortable. From how he moved and groaned, I could tell that all was not right. He was one of the sick ones--the ones for whom the life of violence had left its permanent damage. I remember that he started to masturbate (sorry Natalie, I wouldn't include it if I didn't think it was necessary) and I turned away in disgust. He was like a creature on the Discovery Channel, completely inhuman to me and I remember blaming the Franch government for not keeping its streets "clean" enough for my taste. It was apparent that he didn't have the mental capacity to understand the morality of what he was doing the way I did, and so I cried that this life carried with it such spiritual trauma as well as physical. But I was grateful when the train came and I was able to escape to my hotel room. I've only thought of him when I feel these feelings.
What does it mean to "not allow the beggar to put up his petition to you in vain"? I'll tell you what I think it means to most of us. It means that we move to suburbs and put up gates around our communities and set up Home Owner's Associations and hire security guards and plant big hedges surrounding large fences in order to ensure that neither we nor our children ever meet that man from France on the street. After all, if you never meet the beggar, he cannot put up a petition, and you cannot be held accountable, right? Don't we wish. But in a time in the world's history where choosing to support tariffs here can mean causing an entire village to starve and die there, it's time we used the morality Jesus taught us to use with our local neighbors and applied it to how we treat our global ones.
I love Jesus and I want to learn to properly love his children. I am grateful for His morally challenging gospel and my opportunity to find out how I can take part in it. One day I too hope to be known as a giver of good gifts (Matt 7:11).
...What is the beggar to me? Jesus first says he is my neighbor (Luke 10:29-37), then ups the ante a bit (after all, not all of my neighbors are sympathetic figures to me) when he says the beggar is himself (Matthew 25:40). King Benjamin gives the beggar a mirror so that I may see my reflection in his plight (Miosiah 4:19) and the image becomes even more clear. I really do know what it feels like to beg. As a genuine sinner I have begged the Lord to take my guilt away and make me new. I have even felt the awful uncertainty that beggars must feel when I have completely humiliated myself in pleading and still been unsure if the one hearing my petition would really respond.
I have also met beggars outside of myself. Gandhi was right. These people have suffered violence. The violence of weather extremes, the violence of police brutality, the violence of bourgeois teens who like to have fun at night (anyone remember that social highpoint of our culture known as "Bum Fights?"), the violence of hunger, the violence of vulnerability (sexually and otherwise), and the violence of social stigma and hate. No wonder these people suffer from an incredibly disproportiate rate of mental illness and no wonder it is so easy to look at them as sub-human.
I remember my mother's fervent desire to make her hopelessly bourgeois teens learn King Benjamin's lesson. We had a lemon tree in our backyard that bore fruit for a neighborhood. But no one liked lemons. Growing up in Southern California, most of the people who I saw picking fruit happened to be a different race than me. This also happened to be the same race that most often frequented the community pantry where my mother volunteered and would drag us kids along to help out on holiday breaks. My mother drank in the brief outpouring of social justice that occurred when her bourgeouis white sons actually picked fruit for their brothers of another race to eat instead of the other way around. After a long morning of picking, we would cram into the van and show up at the pantry sufficiently annoyed and withdrawn to show our teenage status. I remember when the old man cried as he picked through our bucket of lemons. He was so happy to get to eat the fruit he had probably spent most of his life picking but not enjoying. "Lemons!" he kept shouting, as if he needed the echo of his voice bouncing off the wall to convince him that they were really his. Why does he pick fruit that I eat? When will he get to pick his own fruit? I suddenly realized that my lifestyle required his.
Then there was the homeless man in the subway station in Paris. This was not an easy night. We were lost, we were cold, and we didn't know French. We had been stranded in the subway station and the menacing looking man in the corner by the trashcan was making me uncomfortable. From how he moved and groaned, I could tell that all was not right. He was one of the sick ones--the ones for whom the life of violence had left its permanent damage. I remember that he started to masturbate (sorry Natalie, I wouldn't include it if I didn't think it was necessary) and I turned away in disgust. He was like a creature on the Discovery Channel, completely inhuman to me and I remember blaming the Franch government for not keeping its streets "clean" enough for my taste. It was apparent that he didn't have the mental capacity to understand the morality of what he was doing the way I did, and so I cried that this life carried with it such spiritual trauma as well as physical. But I was grateful when the train came and I was able to escape to my hotel room. I've only thought of him when I feel these feelings.
What does it mean to "not allow the beggar to put up his petition to you in vain"? I'll tell you what I think it means to most of us. It means that we move to suburbs and put up gates around our communities and set up Home Owner's Associations and hire security guards and plant big hedges surrounding large fences in order to ensure that neither we nor our children ever meet that man from France on the street. After all, if you never meet the beggar, he cannot put up a petition, and you cannot be held accountable, right? Don't we wish. But in a time in the world's history where choosing to support tariffs here can mean causing an entire village to starve and die there, it's time we used the morality Jesus taught us to use with our local neighbors and applied it to how we treat our global ones.
I love Jesus and I want to learn to properly love his children. I am grateful for His morally challenging gospel and my opportunity to find out how I can take part in it. One day I too hope to be known as a giver of good gifts (Matt 7:11).
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Addiction
Addiction
The blanket
That is so comfortable
I pull it tighter
and tighter
and breathe it in
Instead of air.
I watched Celebrity Rehab today and was once again amazed at the phenomenon we know as addiction. This subject is one of the big reasons I have chosen my major (neuroscience) and with the limited knowledge I have gained on this subject, I have also gained remarkable appreciation for the Goliath it is. I watched proud, unstoppable rock stars cry like babies because they could not understand why they couldn't have just one more hit. In parallel, in class I watched a video of a rat that was operantly conditioned to hit a lever that was attached to an electrode which would electrically stimulate its dopamine reward system (the system involved in most addictions) in its brain over and over again, ignoring its food and water needs, until it would collapse from exhaustion. How different are the two addicts really? The answer of course is "very different" as the rock star has the dissappointment, the guilt, and the emotional pain that comes with evolution's contribution of a disproportionately large frontal lobe. Indeed, this just might be the area that is most damaged by addiction (according to new research) which shows cocaine addicts exhibiting cortical degeneration in the frontal cortex, the very area of the brain responsible for helping man overcome his base, animal drives in order to satisfy higher motivations (the desire to be "good" and spiritually fulfilled). This finding is monumental but not surprising. It appears to be the physiological representation of the well-known spiritual phenomenon of giving into the natural man and losing the ability to put it off again. The problem that I have with those who see this as justice, however, is that for most addicts, the punishment doesn't really seem to fit the crime. Many are addicted as children, before their reasoning and even spiritual accountability has fully matured. Many others are made susceptible to addiction by events in their lives beyond their control. Still others make foolish adolescent mistakes as all of us do, knowing that what they're doing is bad, but not really caring, and their punishment just happens to include a lifelong enslavement to addiction while mine required one week of no TV. We must be more compassionate to those battling addictions. While science may not have found the molecule involved in applying the atonement in our lives to overcome addiction yet, this certainly is the only way addiction is ever overcome. Thank God, for his son and his offering of a second chance. Our mistakes are not only written in on our book of Life, they are their in our brain physiology and chemicals, and only Christ can rewire our bad connections. What good we can do as we reach out and help those making their way along the path to recovery.
The blanket
That is so comfortable
I pull it tighter
and tighter
and breathe it in
Instead of air.
I watched Celebrity Rehab today and was once again amazed at the phenomenon we know as addiction. This subject is one of the big reasons I have chosen my major (neuroscience) and with the limited knowledge I have gained on this subject, I have also gained remarkable appreciation for the Goliath it is. I watched proud, unstoppable rock stars cry like babies because they could not understand why they couldn't have just one more hit. In parallel, in class I watched a video of a rat that was operantly conditioned to hit a lever that was attached to an electrode which would electrically stimulate its dopamine reward system (the system involved in most addictions) in its brain over and over again, ignoring its food and water needs, until it would collapse from exhaustion. How different are the two addicts really? The answer of course is "very different" as the rock star has the dissappointment, the guilt, and the emotional pain that comes with evolution's contribution of a disproportionately large frontal lobe. Indeed, this just might be the area that is most damaged by addiction (according to new research) which shows cocaine addicts exhibiting cortical degeneration in the frontal cortex, the very area of the brain responsible for helping man overcome his base, animal drives in order to satisfy higher motivations (the desire to be "good" and spiritually fulfilled). This finding is monumental but not surprising. It appears to be the physiological representation of the well-known spiritual phenomenon of giving into the natural man and losing the ability to put it off again. The problem that I have with those who see this as justice, however, is that for most addicts, the punishment doesn't really seem to fit the crime. Many are addicted as children, before their reasoning and even spiritual accountability has fully matured. Many others are made susceptible to addiction by events in their lives beyond their control. Still others make foolish adolescent mistakes as all of us do, knowing that what they're doing is bad, but not really caring, and their punishment just happens to include a lifelong enslavement to addiction while mine required one week of no TV. We must be more compassionate to those battling addictions. While science may not have found the molecule involved in applying the atonement in our lives to overcome addiction yet, this certainly is the only way addiction is ever overcome. Thank God, for his son and his offering of a second chance. Our mistakes are not only written in on our book of Life, they are their in our brain physiology and chemicals, and only Christ can rewire our bad connections. What good we can do as we reach out and help those making their way along the path to recovery.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Sunday Has Come!
Today, I learned of the passing of Elder Wirthlin, one of our apostles. I only knew this man through talks he gave, but in these short moments I have gained great insight. Elder Wirthlin's talks seemed to me to be more penetrating and poignant in the last few conferences and I have imagined that this was the result of a man beaten wise by the suffering and sorrow that surrounded him. I will never forget his "Sunday Will Come" talk given at the October 2006 conference. It was in this address that I was given this precious testimony:
"Each of us will have our own Fridays—those days when the universe itself seems shattered and the shards of our world lie littered about us in pieces. We all will experience those broken times when it seems we can never be put together again. We will all have our Fridays.
But I testify to you in the name of the One who conquered death—Sunday will come. In the darkness of our sorrow, Sunday will come. "
All this given while Elder Wirthlin shook and strained under the stress of his weary and old body. I couldn't help but weep for joy that this man could give such a testimony. It meant so much. It meant so much for him as he spoke of his personal suffering and loneliness resulting from the death of his wife. It meant so much to my sister who was going through her own personal Friday as she endured endless surgeries. And it means so much to me. I love Elder Wirthlin for saying these words with a message so universally needed.
While I mourn our loss, I carry no regret on his behalf, for his Sunday has come!
"Each of us will have our own Fridays—those days when the universe itself seems shattered and the shards of our world lie littered about us in pieces. We all will experience those broken times when it seems we can never be put together again. We will all have our Fridays.
But I testify to you in the name of the One who conquered death—Sunday will come. In the darkness of our sorrow, Sunday will come. "
All this given while Elder Wirthlin shook and strained under the stress of his weary and old body. I couldn't help but weep for joy that this man could give such a testimony. It meant so much. It meant so much for him as he spoke of his personal suffering and loneliness resulting from the death of his wife. It meant so much to my sister who was going through her own personal Friday as she endured endless surgeries. And it means so much to me. I love Elder Wirthlin for saying these words with a message so universally needed.
While I mourn our loss, I carry no regret on his behalf, for his Sunday has come!
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Points of Emphasis
Coming off a much-needed Thanksgiving break, I am grateful for an infusion of perspective that I hope will translate to a more positive outlook up here at BYU. Thanksgiving gave me my first opportunity to pleasure read in a long while, and I took advantage of the time by diving into "The Chosen", a novel by Chaim Potok. What struck me most in the book was the extreme difference between the different Jewish sects that came from nothing more than a different emphasis they placed on aspects of their faith. They held the same basic beliefs and performed the same basic rites, yet they found much reason to differentiate themselves from one another. This phenomenon was also expressed in my own life as I hung out with some old friends from high school. In our youth, we sprung up in a very "cookie cutter" fashion, each with our own Christian upbringing that was very similar, yet with a different emphasis. I couldn't help but notice the great divergences that had resulted in behavior and thought, all springing from subtle degrees of variation. I am grateful for where I am in my life, because of the emphasis my church has placed on the importance of family, personal discipleship, and agency, but I am also grateful for the perspective my friends bring as they look on from their vantage points of varying heights. They are wonderful and I find their outlooks refreshing, marked in contrast by simple differences in emphasis.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
REUNITED...and it feels so good!
I went to the Joseph F. Smith family reunion this last Monday and came home smiling. I have always been aware of my deep heritage in the Mormon church and I find great strength from my ties (something my mom has taught me to do from her experience). I feel like I can say, "You're just going to have to deal with me, cause I'm here to stay," when fellow Mormons feel I am too unorthodox for their green-jello based tastes. After all, these early church leaders in my past became what they were because they asked hard questions and demanded answers, regardless of how uncomfortable they were. That is inspiring to me.
The meeting itself was delightfully nostalgic-laden. It began with a long series of announcements from the program director who somehow could pick out an "Uncle Hyrum" or "Grandma Lynn" from the thousands of us in attendance. Could she really feel familial ties to such a large mass of people? The next part consisted of a musical production written a few generations back about Jospeh F. Smith performed by some current descendents. This gave an interesting feel to the production. A new generation performing what a middle generation thought of the first generation ancestor was like creating a family tree where the branches held hands and mingled. The production was well-performed, yet suffered from older topics being sung about to a younger audience. It was what a family reunion production should be.
Finally, Elder Ballard, a descendent himself rose to address his large extended family. His topic was keeping the family strong through the polarizing trials facing the world in the face of rising chaos. I felt strengthened and nourished, much as a branch should feel when making connections with its roots.
The meeting itself was delightfully nostalgic-laden. It began with a long series of announcements from the program director who somehow could pick out an "Uncle Hyrum" or "Grandma Lynn" from the thousands of us in attendance. Could she really feel familial ties to such a large mass of people? The next part consisted of a musical production written a few generations back about Jospeh F. Smith performed by some current descendents. This gave an interesting feel to the production. A new generation performing what a middle generation thought of the first generation ancestor was like creating a family tree where the branches held hands and mingled. The production was well-performed, yet suffered from older topics being sung about to a younger audience. It was what a family reunion production should be.
Finally, Elder Ballard, a descendent himself rose to address his large extended family. His topic was keeping the family strong through the polarizing trials facing the world in the face of rising chaos. I felt strengthened and nourished, much as a branch should feel when making connections with its roots.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Watched a live production of Sweeney Todd today. Wow, that was a downer! My favorite part was when all the characters that I had grown so attached to throughout the whole show murdered each other at the end. Now, this isn't a declaration that Sweeney and I didn't get along through much of the production (downers can be very important to my mental health sometimes), but I did find some of his philosophy to be uncomfortably intriguing. Two quotes come to mind, both having to do with Sweeney's decision to murder ALOT of people and turn them into meat pies.
"Because the lives of the wicked should be made brief. For the rest of us death will be a relief. We all deserve to die."
and
"It's man devouring man, my dear! Then who are we to deny it in here"
The scary thing is that these little social commentaries actually made sense to me at their time of delivery, which causes me to curse Mr. Todd and his keen ability to make me agree with depressing things. I'm taken back to the birth of my keen sense of duty to the world, sprouted from my days on the southern California beach (where so many social crusaders are born). I was the kid who got emotionally attached to his sand castle. Who actually became angry when the first wave breached his wall and moat defensive network. Upon first attack, I fought back with resilient determination. When the system inevitably failed I would find myself strewn across the front of my little sand village, taking the brunt of the waves, while the other children laughed instead of coming to my aid. Sweeney is just another one of those kids.
Life is hard (ok, Sweeney's was harder than mine), but its ours! Protect it. The D&C empowers us to be änxiously engaged in a good cause" and to "bring about much righteousness". There is more to life than watching our sand castles wash away. I'm grateful for a God who plans my trials for my good and allows me to struggle at making use of my life.
"Because the lives of the wicked should be made brief. For the rest of us death will be a relief. We all deserve to die."
and
"It's man devouring man, my dear! Then who are we to deny it in here"
The scary thing is that these little social commentaries actually made sense to me at their time of delivery, which causes me to curse Mr. Todd and his keen ability to make me agree with depressing things. I'm taken back to the birth of my keen sense of duty to the world, sprouted from my days on the southern California beach (where so many social crusaders are born). I was the kid who got emotionally attached to his sand castle. Who actually became angry when the first wave breached his wall and moat defensive network. Upon first attack, I fought back with resilient determination. When the system inevitably failed I would find myself strewn across the front of my little sand village, taking the brunt of the waves, while the other children laughed instead of coming to my aid. Sweeney is just another one of those kids.
Life is hard (ok, Sweeney's was harder than mine), but its ours! Protect it. The D&C empowers us to be änxiously engaged in a good cause" and to "bring about much righteousness". There is more to life than watching our sand castles wash away. I'm grateful for a God who plans my trials for my good and allows me to struggle at making use of my life.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Licking my wounds
The Last Leaf
The wind blows and the leaves fall,
Releasing the weathered branches that gave them life,
They whirl and spin to the pile of rot below.
Like shooting stars running to meet the night,
Soaring and burning, they crash to the ground.
But not all will choose this way to dance!
I am the last leaf.
My coat is scorched brown from the alluring heat of Summer
And once again aches for the green of a Spring birth.
I cleave to the branch my brothers have given up for dead.
Day after day, I watch them dance on the breeze,
These are thrills I will never know.
My branch quakes in the wind and sags from the strain.
But still,
I hold on.
Believing against belief,
That although the Fall has come,
The Winter never will.
Once the leaves hit the ground, they all look the same.
...Or Not To Be
What would it be to dissolve and cease
To lie down in a puddle and just...give in
To give up on me and give in to peace
To let transient forces break down my skin
To be a lone cloud in a near cloudless sky
And feel my thin wisps licked clean by the sun
To be cotton candy, once cumulus and high
But now, but a glaze on a sugar-drenched tongue...
...And what would it be if this already was
Myself, just a dot on an impressionist's brush
Smeared on a canvas where other dots pause
To pierce through my borders with a gentle harsh push
And what would it be if this could but be!
An eternal forfeit in the face of a fall
Choosing to end with my last chance to choose
Believing, Ï'm nothing,"then believing nothing at all.
What would this be, this nihilist's dream
Where I could lie down without taking a fall
And pull out my stitches at each careworn seam
Free from doubt, free from faith, free from choice, free from all.
The wind blows and the leaves fall,
Releasing the weathered branches that gave them life,
They whirl and spin to the pile of rot below.
Like shooting stars running to meet the night,
Soaring and burning, they crash to the ground.
But not all will choose this way to dance!
I am the last leaf.
My coat is scorched brown from the alluring heat of Summer
And once again aches for the green of a Spring birth.
I cleave to the branch my brothers have given up for dead.
Day after day, I watch them dance on the breeze,
These are thrills I will never know.
My branch quakes in the wind and sags from the strain.
But still,
I hold on.
Believing against belief,
That although the Fall has come,
The Winter never will.
Once the leaves hit the ground, they all look the same.
...Or Not To Be
What would it be to dissolve and cease
To lie down in a puddle and just...give in
To give up on me and give in to peace
To let transient forces break down my skin
To be a lone cloud in a near cloudless sky
And feel my thin wisps licked clean by the sun
To be cotton candy, once cumulus and high
But now, but a glaze on a sugar-drenched tongue...
...And what would it be if this already was
Myself, just a dot on an impressionist's brush
Smeared on a canvas where other dots pause
To pierce through my borders with a gentle harsh push
And what would it be if this could but be!
An eternal forfeit in the face of a fall
Choosing to end with my last chance to choose
Believing, Ï'm nothing,"then believing nothing at all.
What would this be, this nihilist's dream
Where I could lie down without taking a fall
And pull out my stitches at each careworn seam
Free from doubt, free from faith, free from choice, free from all.
Monday, September 29, 2008
What I learned from being a monkey.
Life always feels so much better when you try to do something hard that is right. My chosen feat for the week was to include the kid down the hall. He's in that impossibly difficult situation of attending BYU without being a member of the church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and so he has not made as many friends as his daringly cool personality deserves. He doesn't DO sacrament meeting, FHE, or home teaching, and so, many of us (including me) don't DO anything with him. It was time to change that.
We invited him over to play games, and he eagerly accepted. After playing one round of our "boring" game (his painfully truthful word), we sportingly agreed to play his. His was one of those games that have made sleep overs more interesting for pre-teenage girls for the last several decades where the loser has to perform some embarrassing task decided on by the rest of his conquerors. I was the "lucky loser" who got the opportunity to see just how creative his mind could be in contemplating torturous situations. After some trial balloons were shot down ("Make him go ask out a girl" --too embarrassing, for the girl. etc.) they decided on having me act like a gorilla down the halls of my apartment complex until I attracted a sufficient crowd.
So, I'm going to have to confess at this point that this sort of thing really doesn't embarrass me. My life has been one cascading parade of tripping over myself and dragging around toilet paper, so my humiliation receptors have become sufficiently desensitized. I went at my chosen punishment with all the vigor of a cat closing in on its tail, and was attracting a nice crowd of bewildered and amused ward members (Oh, it's just one of those monkey people again, let's get back to CSI). Then it went bad. An angry looking male storms out from a room, catches me mid-howl, and stuns me with "Could you be normal for a few minutes, we're trying to give our home teachees a blessing." OUCH! He pulled out the blessing card and I was trumped. My monkey arms lowered sheepishly, but before I could apologize he was back in the room. I felt bad, REALLY bad. It was the tragic frustration of feeling misunderstood and stupid all at the same time. I hoped those in the apartment would be merciful to their fellow ward member, who really had left all evil motives behind at the game table.
Luckily, I had a chance to glance at the home teaching message he would have given those girls before their blessing. President Eyring says, "We must forgive and bear no malice toward those who offend us. The Savior set the example from the cross: “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). We do not know the hearts of those who offend us. Nor do we know all the sources of our own anger and hurt." In the spirit of that message, I let the frustration go and felt confident that I had been forgiven.
We invited him over to play games, and he eagerly accepted. After playing one round of our "boring" game (his painfully truthful word), we sportingly agreed to play his. His was one of those games that have made sleep overs more interesting for pre-teenage girls for the last several decades where the loser has to perform some embarrassing task decided on by the rest of his conquerors. I was the "lucky loser" who got the opportunity to see just how creative his mind could be in contemplating torturous situations. After some trial balloons were shot down ("Make him go ask out a girl" --too embarrassing, for the girl. etc.) they decided on having me act like a gorilla down the halls of my apartment complex until I attracted a sufficient crowd.
So, I'm going to have to confess at this point that this sort of thing really doesn't embarrass me. My life has been one cascading parade of tripping over myself and dragging around toilet paper, so my humiliation receptors have become sufficiently desensitized. I went at my chosen punishment with all the vigor of a cat closing in on its tail, and was attracting a nice crowd of bewildered and amused ward members (Oh, it's just one of those monkey people again, let's get back to CSI). Then it went bad. An angry looking male storms out from a room, catches me mid-howl, and stuns me with "Could you be normal for a few minutes, we're trying to give our home teachees a blessing." OUCH! He pulled out the blessing card and I was trumped. My monkey arms lowered sheepishly, but before I could apologize he was back in the room. I felt bad, REALLY bad. It was the tragic frustration of feeling misunderstood and stupid all at the same time. I hoped those in the apartment would be merciful to their fellow ward member, who really had left all evil motives behind at the game table.
Luckily, I had a chance to glance at the home teaching message he would have given those girls before their blessing. President Eyring says, "We must forgive and bear no malice toward those who offend us. The Savior set the example from the cross: “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). We do not know the hearts of those who offend us. Nor do we know all the sources of our own anger and hurt." In the spirit of that message, I let the frustration go and felt confident that I had been forgiven.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
"...if ye have desires to serve God, ye are called to the work"
Arriving back at BYU straight from my mission brought all the expected challenges plus more. I expected to be frustrated at not remembering math...or chemistry...or how to use 'correct: punctuation!?> Check! But what I failed to take into account was my awkward adjustment through the 3 phases of returned missionary de-evolution:
1) Thinking everyone else is going to Hell (This phase was thankfully cut short by my irresistible desire to have people like me).
2) Thinking I am going to Hell (my current phase. Is it getting hot in here?)
3) Returning to normalcy or working at the MTC (in which case you will NEVER be normal again ;)
Phase 2 is exasperated by the fact that I have gone from feeling incredibly useful and important to the Lord in daily service as a missionary to feeling like an injured regular of the celestial bench. You see, BYU doesn't have enough callings to go around and so, I find myself hoping to become part of the spiritual wellness and Sabbath day worship committee or the staff of assistant ward clerks that rivals Arthur Anderson's tax time employment level. Didn't the Lord promise "if ye have desires to serve God, ye are called to the work?" Well, "Speak; for thy servant heareth!"
That's when the voice came. It was one of those awkward post closing prayer announcements when someone rushes the microphone to seize a moment at the pulpit. "Meet at the common room at 2:45 pm if you would like to go sing to the convalescent home." While I tend to be conservative in labeling life events as due to the hand of God, even I was able to take comfort that in the least the Lord had answered my prayer through the workings of His perfect church. I was so there.
Once we arrived I remembered the secret that I had learned and then forgotten through the course of my mission: the secret of the church is service. Many of the home's residents suffered from varying levels of mental degeneration, but a majority had been raised within the unique culture of the LDS church. To them, the simple songs we sung--"I am a child of God", "Popcorn Popping", and "Choose the Right" wrapped around them with the familiarity of a baby blanket. As often happens in the all too human world of service, I did something embarrassing. While singing "Called to Serve" we were reminded by one of the patrons that the song was a march and that our bodies needed to act like it. While adopting an awkward marching movement while anchored against the wall, I had the uncomfortable realization that my back was becoming increasingly wet. As I turned to find out why, I saw that my position against the wall just happened to press me up against the hand sanitizer dispenser which my marching motion was vigorously stimulating to action...all over my back.
In more ways than one, I was able to realize the Lord's promise that through service, I would be made clean.
1) Thinking everyone else is going to Hell (This phase was thankfully cut short by my irresistible desire to have people like me).
2) Thinking I am going to Hell (my current phase. Is it getting hot in here?)
3) Returning to normalcy or working at the MTC (in which case you will NEVER be normal again ;)
Phase 2 is exasperated by the fact that I have gone from feeling incredibly useful and important to the Lord in daily service as a missionary to feeling like an injured regular of the celestial bench. You see, BYU doesn't have enough callings to go around and so, I find myself hoping to become part of the spiritual wellness and Sabbath day worship committee or the staff of assistant ward clerks that rivals Arthur Anderson's tax time employment level. Didn't the Lord promise "if ye have desires to serve God, ye are called to the work?" Well, "Speak; for thy servant heareth!"
That's when the voice came. It was one of those awkward post closing prayer announcements when someone rushes the microphone to seize a moment at the pulpit. "Meet at the common room at 2:45 pm if you would like to go sing to the convalescent home." While I tend to be conservative in labeling life events as due to the hand of God, even I was able to take comfort that in the least the Lord had answered my prayer through the workings of His perfect church. I was so there.
Once we arrived I remembered the secret that I had learned and then forgotten through the course of my mission: the secret of the church is service. Many of the home's residents suffered from varying levels of mental degeneration, but a majority had been raised within the unique culture of the LDS church. To them, the simple songs we sung--"I am a child of God", "Popcorn Popping", and "Choose the Right" wrapped around them with the familiarity of a baby blanket. As often happens in the all too human world of service, I did something embarrassing. While singing "Called to Serve" we were reminded by one of the patrons that the song was a march and that our bodies needed to act like it. While adopting an awkward marching movement while anchored against the wall, I had the uncomfortable realization that my back was becoming increasingly wet. As I turned to find out why, I saw that my position against the wall just happened to press me up against the hand sanitizer dispenser which my marching motion was vigorously stimulating to action...all over my back.
In more ways than one, I was able to realize the Lord's promise that through service, I would be made clean.
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