Transitions

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end. 
--Dan Wilson

Every time I hit a big transition, I feel a little torn up inside. This time around, I'm wondering what it's like to be the type of person who moves on without ever looking back; who doesn't form deep connections to things, places, life phases, or even people.  What do they call individuals like me? Sentimentalists? Emotional wrecks? Human...?


I'm not entirely sure what's so hard about it--knowing that the first month or so of something new is always hard? Letting go of what's been familiar and comfortable for a long time? Both. And more: knowing that even if you go back to where you formed all of the fond memories, it will never be the same. Everything will feel strange, like putting on your favorite shirt only to find that throwing it in the dryer was a huge mistake.

I know this is all a little gloom-and-doomy, but transitions really do hurt. Unlike the shrunken shirt, though, they aren't mistakes. And ultimately, as one volume of my life's encyclopedia wraps up, there's still a library's worth of lessons to be learned, all punctuated by transitional book-ends marking the next learning adventure. It's incredible when I think about everything I've learned in the past nine years. I remember moving down to Provo as a new freshman--determined to be independent, yet not having any idea how much I would always still need my family. It's fascinating to look back when I'm at the end of that beginning.


Now, it's time to "go forth to serve," so I guess this is it. Good-bye, BYU. Hello France and everything that lies beyond.

Pruning Time

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven...a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted...a time to keep, and a time to cast away... --Ecclesiastes 3:1-6

I've been spending a lot of time lately sitting at my bedroom desk whittling away at my master's thesis. Being a fan of natural light and the outdoors, I've positioned my desk so as to look out one of my windows. I have a lovely view of the sky--generally blue these days--bordered by Mount Timpanogos and, until recently, bisected by three tall cottonwood trees. After one of those trees was knocked over in a strong storm, crashing down on a neighboring roof, our groundskeepers decided to remove the other two. As I watched them hacking off the branches yesterday and listened to them fall to the ground with a resounding crack, I honestly felt a sense of loss. I liked those trees; it was a nice distraction to look up for a moment and see the wind ruffling their highest leaves as the branches gently swayed.

I tend to be like that--holding on to something simply because it's familiar and then mourning once it's gone. I'm not exactly a pack rat, but I even have a hard time sifting through my things and deciding what I'm ready to throw away or send to DI. Everything I own and everything that regularly surrounds me has some sort of memory attached to it. Getting rid of something often requires me to painfully extract the memory from the object before I am prepared to let it go. Some of the memories haven't been looked at in ages, but they are still there; the nostalgia often gives me a stomachache.

I've been having an especially hard time with this process lately, because I'm not just throwing out objects. In the very near future, I'll be leaving the university scene indefinitely. I'll be moving on from Provo--where I've lived for nearly ten years--and venturing out into the wide world. I've had the sense that I need to leave hanging over me for a long time, but when my exact destination fell into place earlier this week, the certainty of separation was surprisingly sharp: at once exhilarating and terrifying, painful and yet peaceful.

It all makes me ask the question: why in the world do we ever put down roots in the first place when we know that at some point, we will have to experience the pain of moving on?

About a year ago, I came across an article in the BYU alumni magazine which has permanently changed my understanding of investing in my current situation--of sending down roots even when I know they might be pulled up very soon. The author referenced a group of early Latter-day Saints who were in a moment of transition. But rather than keep their wagons packed and be at the ready to move on, the Lord encouraged them to "act upon this land as for years"--to put down some roots, both figuratively and literally, until they were called to go elsewhere.

In the end, we make connections, send down roots, build our lives in the midst of change because we cannot afford to miss the chance to grow. And even if the connections we make are pruned down to the barest branches, the experiences we had will live within us forever. Outward things may disappear, but the memories and the learning continue to propel our lives forward to new growth and greater strength. Likewise, if we stubbornly hold on to things once we have a knowledge that it is the season to prune, we will never become what the Lord intends us to be.

So in spite of the nostalgia-induced stomachaches and the pain of casting away something you've dared to invest in, here's to living life the way it was intended to be: a process of learning how to love and when to let go.

Puzzling

When I was growing up, I loved putting together jigsaw puzzles with my mom. We'd dump the 500, 750, or 1000 pieces out on a card table and spend hours sorting, grouping, and connecting. The picture on the front of the box was always an important aspect of the process--a resource we could look to in order to make sense of  the Monet-like mess on each individual piece. One time, though, we put together a "mystery" puzzle--the idea being that we didn't know what the picture was going to look like and only had some clues related to what it might be. It was a pretty difficult puzzle, and all I can remember is that I quickly got frustrated and left it to my mom to complete.

Lately, I've been thinking about how living life is like putting together a series of jigsaw puzzles--each with its own image that somehow fits successively into a greater whole. The big trick, however, is that we seldom have a reference picture to help us see what we're presently doing; life is a mystery puzzle. We're lucky enough to have "clues" in the form of scripture, revelation, and wise friends/family, but the actual picture of our own life is remarkably lacking. However, rather than allowing ourselves to get frustrated when we can't see exactly what the end product might be, we have to be patient and continue sorting, grouping, and connecting. Because after weeks, months, and sometimes years of sorting and trying to make sense of cardboard piles of sky, forest, or sand--things start sliding together rapidly. Once two or three pieces fit together, it's easier to see what you're looking at, and sometimes, things start fitting together so well and so quickly that it seems strange that you didn't see the patterns before.

I know this, because I feel like I've completed a few puzzles in my life already--and looking back at the revealed pictures makes me wonder where in-the-moment frustration came from. It's what I'm holding to right now while I stare at a few jumbled piles...and as I marvel at how some of the pieces are starting to fall together almost without my trying to connect them. I guess this mystery puzzle is just bigger and more beautiful than I expected.

The Unbeaten Path

Patience is a willingness, in a sense, to watch the unfolding purposes of God with a sense of wonder and awe—rather than pacing up and down within the cell of our circumstance. --Neal A. Maxwell

In the spirit of Ash Wednesday, I'm going to make a frank confession: I hate ambiguity. Staring ahead into the unknown future almost feels like staring into the face of death: it's terrifying. Ultimately, I don't suppose either of those things--death or ambiguity--ought to be so frightening, but fear tends to work its way into every human mind and extricating it is the work of a lifetime. For me, the result of this specific fear is that I have a tendency to want to push everything in my life to a conclusion. I'd rather make things end my way (good or bad) than wait for the unknown to unfold and reveal greater purposes. I'm recognizing that it's unhealthy--both spiritually and emotionally--and I want to change. This, my friends, brings me back to Ash Wednesday.

Although I believe repentance is a constant process that shouldn't be saved for Lent, I think there is still something to taking stock of our lives on this Christianity-wide day of fasting. But rather than giving up meat or abstaining from any number of "luxuries" (most of which I don't incorporate into my life anyway) which will subsequently be taken up again in 40 days, I want to commit indefinitely to giving up something much more difficult; I want to try to give up my fear of the future.

More than any other time in my life, I currently feel like I'm staring out into a vast field in which I can't seem to locate a beaten path. Surely I won't be expected to step out into that, right? Surely I'll be able to see my way before I have to take the first step... But these thoughts remind me of classic scene from a great movie: in the final Indiana Jones film, Indy is propelled forward through a complicated system of obstacles in order to save his father from a premature death. The final--and most difficult--obstacle presents him with a terrifying precipice that  his notes and maps tell him he has to cross in order to find the holy grail. Recognizing that he has to step out into the unknown, he closes his eyes and goes for it--only to realize that he is almost magically supported by an unseen ledge, perfectly designed and disguised to trick the eye into believing there is nothing but empty space bordered by jagged rocks. I really love this scene in the movie, because as Indy puts his foot out to take that first step, he has no idea what lies right in front of him. But he takes that step anyway--and the end result is better, and even more simple, than he could have imagined.

To bring things back to reality, we don't ever need to feel alone or afraid to press forward--even if no regular mortal has ever crossed the path or forged into the broad field that we are staring across, there is always One being who has been there. The scriptures tell us numerous times that Christ has prepared the way, that He will prepare the way, that He is the way for those who believe in Him. If we align our will with His, there is no unbeaten path or unbridged chasm, because Christ has been where we will go and will help us navigate our lives to our ultimate destination--if we have the courage to let Him lead us and the patience to allow His will and His plan to unfold.

I believe all of these things--and as I look at my life retrospectively, I know them. I have seen this happen in my life. This is not the first time ambiguity has crept up on me, and it won't be the last. "Another race hath been, and other palms are won" (See Wordsworth's Ode)--so here's to taking that first step that will lead to winning more. And just in case you wondered, I don't intend to re-acquaint myself with the "luxury" of fear after Easter Sunday.

Joy Cometh in the Morning

I've been thinking a lot lately about light; I don't know if everyone feels this way, but nothing is more refreshing to me than to know that winter solstice has passed and each day brings the promise of more daylight to the northern hemisphere. It's very appropriate that Hanukkah--a celebration of light--straddled the solstice this year. Further, I think it's very interesting that Christmas falls near the birth of increased light--even if I don't believe Christ was actually born on December 25th, the symbolism is beautiful and fitting. What better way to think of and know Christ than as the light of the world--the purest light that shines into our lives and hearts?

About a week ago I was feeling very blue--what about is not important, but the feeling was potent. Sadness is something that absolutely everyone can relate to; I know I'm not alone in shedding tears and hurting now and then. But after crying it out and talking to a good friend late one night, I finally decided to just go to sleep and let it all rest. The next morning as the sun shone through my window for the first time in days, I felt wonderful--almost as if nothing had happened to make me sad, and one of my favorite scriptures came to mind: "weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning" (Psalms 30:5).


The way that light plays on our emotions is not something that I fully understand--however, I do believe the influence is real and valid. So here's to light and brighter days: and may light always be a reminder that even the darkest day of the year is really a promise of good things to come.

Dying Brought New Birth

As I was submitting my last finals this week, I couldn't help remembering what I was doing at this same time last year. After finishing up with an early morning final on Friday, December 17, I came straight home and cleaned out the refrigerator. Uncharacteristically, I hadn't even gotten online yet that day to check my social media, and didn't get around to it until lunch time. The first thing I saw when I pulled up my Facebook was the horrible news that the Provo Tabernacle had been almost completely destroyed by a mysterious fire early that morning. I was sincerely shocked--both that half the day had gone by without my knowing what had happened and that my favorite building in Provo looked like a bomb zone. At the time, most of us merely hoped that the building was salvageable and could be rebuilt. I don't know that anyone anticipated President Monson's recent announcement about making it into a temple.

A few weeks ago, I was talking about the Provo Tabernacle Temple with a friend and she made an intriguing suggestion--perhaps the tabernacle needed to be purified by fire in order to prepare it to become a temple. While I don't know that I'm quite so fatalistic about the issue, it did get me thinking a lot about how something wonderful and beautiful is often born out of tragedy and loss.

On a seemingly unrelated topic, another friend of mine pointed out the fact that a lot of Christmas stories are centered on a mean character that undergoes some form of transformation--the Grinch's heart grows three sizes, Scrooge "became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the good old city knew," and Henry Van Dyke's John Weightman learns the difference between building mansions on earth and mansions in heaven. The idea of transformation seems perfectly natural at Christmas time--since Christ's ultimate purpose in coming to earth was to help us to change our nature and return to live with God.

So what does a burned-out building have to do with Christmas, transformation, and the atonement? Well, Paul very beautifully points out that in repenting and changing, it is as though "our old man is crucified with [Christ]" and we are spiritually born into a new state of being (Romans 6:6). Just as Christ had to die that we might live again physically, so the bad things within us have to die in order for us to truly become who we were always intended to be. And while our transformation cannot be as simplistic as rebuilding an edifice or, in the work of one night spent with three ghosts, the instant overturn of all our former habits, there is infinite hope for us to be reborn and transformed every day of our lives. Out of the tragedy of sin and the pain of our own loss, we will always be salvageable--and not only that, we can be built into something more than anyone ever anticipated.

Ultimately, that is what Christmas is all about--a reminder that because a special Child was born over 2000 years ago in very humble circumstances, we are capable of more than we might imagine. And through our life's work of learning to rely on Him and carrying these truths in our hearts, I hope it can be "said of us, and all of us" that we understand what it means "to keep Christmas well." (A Christmas Carol)

Sand of the Sea

I was sitting in the temple today and the sheer vastness of humanity swept over me. Here we were hoping to make some small dent in the world of ordinance work when I don't think any living person can possibly comprehend how much 6 billion really is--and when you consider how many people have lived since the beginning of time...well, it's daunting.

As I was thinking about the mighty sea of names that regularly rushes through temples around the world, I had an insight about Moses 1. After being transfigured so that he can be in the presence of God and comprehend a portion of His glory, Moses is given a vision that only a handful of prophets have been privileged to see:

And it came to pass that Moses looked, and beheld the world upon which he was created; and Moses beheld the world and the ends thereof, and all the children of men which are, and which were created; of the same he greatly marveled and wondered. --Moses 1:8

He literally saw everyone--I can't even begin to understand how that happened or what it must have been like, but I imagine it was severely overwhelming. A few verses later, after the vision closes and God withdraws His physical presence, Moses is exhausted for several hours. When he recovers, he says to himself: "Now...I know that man is nothing, which thing I never had supposed" (Moses 1:10). Whenever I've read that verse before, I always linked Moses's amazement about man being nothing to the fact that he understood how infinite and powerful God is. But I think there's more to it than that.

School just started at BYU, and I've been feeling overwhelmed by how many people have flooded the campus. I always get comfortable over spring and summer when the population is reduced by 3/4, and I can peacefully go about my business. Fall semester feels like drowning for more reasons than a tough schedule. And I think that's part of what Moses felt: he suddenly realized that with so many people from the beginning until the end, one person is almost as nothing. They are a drop in a bucket; they are a grain of sand on the seashore.

Now, this is all sounding a little depressing--but that's not the point at all. Because the amazing and even more incomprehensible thing is that in spite of the mind-blowing masses of people that God has created, the fact remains that He created them. And He knows them.

I've also been feeling overwhelmed by the influx of new faces in my own ward--it's a tremendous challenge to try to remember everyone and to try to make connections with them and learn to care for them. But here is where the real power from this insight comes: although we really are as the sand of the sea, God has numbered us--and He has sounded the depths of our hearts. And because He knows us and loves us and wants to help us,
He moves those grains of sand around so that they bump against each other, so that they eternally impact one another, so that they become refined.

And so what do all of these metaphors mean? Well, as overwhelming as the vastness of creation can be, we don't need to feel buried or inundated. Because in touching just one life, both lives--ours and theirs--will never be the same.