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.

Why do we fall?

A few weeks ago, I was walking towards a parking lot and was startled to hear a tremendous scraping noise right behind me. I quickly turned around and saw the tail end of a teenage skateboarder's 90 degree stopping turn. Both because of the abrupt awkwardness of the turn and because he was no more than four feet behind me, I assumed he'd turned to avoid crashing into me. Glad that we'd escaped a collision and that he hadn't fallen over, I kept walking as he rolled past. But the interesting thing is that he kept making those 90 degree turns as he went through the parking lot and down a hill. Watching him make one awkward turn after another and nearly falling a few times, I of course realized that he hadn't been swerving to avoid me but was actually practicing a skill.

Skateboarding honestly makes me nervous, because I imagine you have to be okay with falling multiple times in order to perfect balance, turning, braking, etc. And, even as I watched this kid rolling around and skidding through awkward stops, it occurred to me that he'd probably fallen a lot before polishing the skill as much as he had. I couldn't help but admire his fearlessness.

I've been reflecting a lot lately about failure. It's not that I consider myself a huge failure at anything or that I'm wallowing in despair, but as a perfectionist, it's hard for me to accept small failures or shortcomings in myself. Interestingly, this failure avoidance has sometimes kept me from progressing--almost as if I'd rather stay in the safety zone of my known capacity rather than risk drifting out into the unknown where I might be exposed to things I can't yet accomplish. Failure and falling short aren't problems, but fear of failure is a crippling thing. If that kid had been afraid of falling, he probably would never have taken up skateboarding at all, and the only way we learn is if we allow ourselves to fall a little bit--to recognize the gap between what we want to do and what we can do. Because in that falling, as Bruce Wayne's father so memorably stated, we learn to pick ourselves up.

Destinations

We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time. --T. S. Eliot

This past month has been an interesting one for me. I'm not working, but I've had the security of knowing that I've got a job starting mid-June and continuing until at least next April, so I haven't been stressed. I'm not taking classes and am moving at a semi-leisurely pace through required reading and thesis preparation--emphasis on leisurely. My laid-back schedule has allowed me a lot of time to pleasure-read, reflect, and travel.

I find that vacations can sometimes be exhausting--a week-long jaunt to New York and DC was jam-packed with museums and sight-seeing. By the end, I was suffering from art and history overload and everything was starting to melt together in a blur of overstimulation. Enjoyable? Yes. Preparation to return to normal life? Not exactly.

Last week, I ventured down a 10-mile canyon to Havasupai, Arizona. The hike in was stunning--the canyon was beautiful and the temperamental weather made for interesting vistas of gray clouds and blue skies. I've always been a "journey" hiker--not pressing on too quickly towards the final destination and making sure to catch everything I can on the way. Frequent stops and a slower pace are a matter of course--not necessarily for fatigue, but rather to admire the surroundings. Fortunately, the guys in the group were compulsive climbers and were drooling over the rocks enough to merit multiple stops. Once we were down the canyon, they also tended to be more adventurous than I wanted to be, so I had plenty of alone time to contemplate beautiful waterfalls and just think about life--much more relaxed than being on my feet all day trying to remember every detail about American history or Monet. At one point, after descending an insane maze of caves, chains, and semi-slick footholds, I sat at the bottom of Mooney Falls while my group went farther down the river in search of even crazier adventures. Alone and completely removed from technology and other modern distractions, I embarked on some much-needed introspection.

I think sometimes it's really easy to get caught up in what we'll be doing tomorrow, next week, in six months, etc. Personally, I've been known to obsess over what will happen in the future and attempt to foresee every eventuality so as to plan out the details. It's tremendously ironic that while I'm keen on enjoying the journey while I hike, I struggle to apply that principle to my life as a whole. I focus on the intermediate destinations of life and speed through the surrounding scenery as quickly as possible without taking the time to enjoy it. I know what my ultimate destination is, but if I were truly making that my one focal point, then I wouldn't worry about what happens now--rather, I'd focus on how I can make the most of each moment that will lead me there.

In ten years, I'm not going to remember all of the little worries that occupy my thoughts right now. But I will remember the lessons I've learned, the time I spent with family and close friends, the moments of introspection and revelation that propel me slowly forward, and I'll continue to benefit from a constantly developing relationship with God. And while intermediate destinations can be important and worth our attention, we lose something of life and eternity if we don't explore, enjoy, and seek to understand our surroundings on the way.

Syndromes and Such

Even though I've had more than a month-long hiatus from posting, this blurb is still going to be moderately brief. I've just been thinking about an interesting syndrome I seem to suffer from. Like many of my other made-up complexes and syndromes, it's not one that you'll find in a textbook or even on Wikipedia, rather it's my attempt at explaining some weird quirk that I have. Without further ado, let me introduce my latest diagnosis: matchmaker syndrome.

Now, this is not a cupid-like tendency where I have a compulsive need to set people up with each other. Nor is it akin to Emma Woodhouse who couldn't help meddling in other people's lives almost as a way of covering up her own deficiencies (well...it might be distinctly related to the last one). Rather, it's a peculiar proclivity that manifests itself on first dates. I find myself sorting through my friends and wondering who would be the best match for the guy I'm with--which either means that I've already ruled him out as a "potential" on my list but still think he's a nice guy or that I'm running away from the possibility of commitment. I think I prefer the former. Either way, it's probably not the best way to date.

So what, you may ask, does the doctor prescribe for my ailment? Well, I think one of my biggest failings is that I love to give people advice that is generally sound, but I rarely follow it myself. Bottom line: I might be stuck in first-date mode indefinitely.

Banishing Snakes

St. Patrick's Day is a funny holiday--we all traipse around in our greenest clothes, pretending that we're Irish or that eating green pancakes and corned beef is a good idea. But today I was a little more reflective than the standard chase-and-pinch variety. In fact, in honor if it being St. Patrick's Day today, I've been thinking a bit about St. Patrick himself: credited with bringing Christianity to Ireland and for having banished snakes from the island, purportedly driving them into the sea. While the tale of the snakes is probably completely apocryphal, I believe that many legends spring from some element of truth--especially when said legends are based around real people.

I spent six months of my mission in Metz--a beautiful city in the Lorraine region of northeastern France--and was fascinated by its history. In one of the streets of the vieille ville (old city), a large wooden dragon hangs suspended between the buildings.I was startled the first time I saw it--it seemed a bit odd--but I mostly just wanted to know what it was and why it was there. I spoke to one of the members about it and discovered the legend of the Graoully. He was a terrible beast that wreaked havoc on the Messins until St. Clement, the bishop who brought Christianity to Metz, used a cross to drive the him into the river.

Now, I recognize that this tale is also highly unlikely--but the symbolism is somewhat striking. Further, I still hold to my belief that there is some truth to these myths--likely centered around the idea of Christianity putting an end to paganism or what may be seen as spiritual death. In a more true-to-life account, Moses saves the children of Israel from the fiery serpents by putting up a brass serpent for them to look to--a clear foreshadowing (as Alma underscores in 33:19-20) to Jesus Christ. Moses didn't drive the serpents into a body of water, but he nonetheless used the power of Christ to preserve the people from certain death.

Wherever the legends of St. Patrick and the Graoully spring from, I can't help thinking about the parallels in my life: how has the Gospel of Jesus Christ helped me to banish snakes and overcome fiery serpents? What are the dragons in my life that need to be dumped into the river? Most importantly, how does the atonement change me into the person God wants me to become? It's definitely food for thought--and a powerful application of an otherwise unimportant holiday.

So here's to holidays and legends that remind us of who we are. But I'm going to leave the leprechauns and rainbows for another day...

Spring on the Horizon

"To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."
--William Wordsworth

That's it--I've decided to be a blogger. I can't guarantee that it will last a tremendously long time, but I couldn't get past the desire to write today. And somehow, the desire wasn't appeased by my journal. I've been posting more one-liners on Facebook than normal and I figure I might as well bleed the thoughts over into more extensive writing.

Today is slated to be the warmest day of the year so far--sunny, blue sky, the works. I've always known that spring was my season, and I'm feeling it profoundly this morning. It's like we don't even realize that we're muddling through life until suddenly...we're not anymore. Don't get me wrong--I think winter is lovely. In fact, it snowed just the other day, but instead of joining the throng of Utah weather bashers, I just smiled and said, "It's not going to last, but it sure does make life interesting."

But in spite of a stubborn optimism, I can't deny that winter puts me into a rut. I went to my seminary teaching class this morning feeling...dry. Not in a tell-cynical-jokes kind of sense, but rather in an I'm-spiritually-thirsty sense. But I didn't want to be there. I felt negative. And when I'm in one of those moods, everything feels trite. How true it is that we can shut ourselves off from feeling.

At any rate, something was said or something slipped past my crustiness, and I started feeling severely emotionally vulnerable. Those are the times when we need the atonement of Jesus Christ the most--whatever the vulnerability stems from. And as we were reading through a talk in class, I was reminded of my favorite truth: the Gospel = repentance = positive change. I almost cried--not because it's a new idea, but because the application was new and important. I jumped into the discussion and started feeling like a "watered garden" again (Isaiah 58:11).

T.S. Eliot said that April--and by association, spring--is cruel for stirring roots in the comfortably forgetful earth. In some respects, he was right--change and growth hurt. But those little flowers poking their heads out signify getting out of the rut and feeling something good again.