I never testify in my journal entries anymore. Failure to write them at all certainly proves both a constant and formidable barrier; however, when surpassing that hurdle, I tend to focus so much attention on insignificant details that I neglect the spiritual elements of the record. As I read through my bona fide mission journals, my heart occasionally years for more details. Yet, in the end, solace swallows frustrations as the purity of the soul fills each entry. My memory opens more fully to the spiritual impression of the moment than the fine details which are certainly important in their own respective sphere. I pray that I might remember to include my testimony a little more.
My first few classes challenged my fortitude. They dragged on forever and I kept falling asleep. Eric smacked my elbow. Emily made a comment about my snoozing. Did Ruth ask me if I enjoyed my nap today, or was that another day? My favorite part of the morning—Dr. Jones making a cameo appearance in Theatre History to announce auditions for Berenice. I got so excited.
The rest of the day was pretty much work and later a fun FHE with dodgeball, crafts, and 4-square. I spent most of my time at the latter. The middle of the day brought a beautiful scripture study. Updating my gratitude journal, I opened my studies with a prayer. Supplication humbled my spirit, or at least sought such a goal. My heart asked the Lord certain questions, or rather posed questions for which I desired to find answers. Proceeding to further formulate those inquiries, I recorded them on the back of the first page to a newly created study journal. I’m focusing on faith right now; however, recent studies of Alma 32 prompted me to study hope—its relation to faith and how I might go about developing hope to strengthen my faith. Friday’s study encouraged me to study President Faust’s talk on Spiritual Nutrients and President Uchtdorf’s recent counsel on The Infinite Power of Hope. Today, I pursued the latter.
Humility invites inspiration that one otherwise misses. I think the Lord attempts to communicate to us, but our ears are not tuned to His frequency, we’re not paying attention. Nothing jumped out at me as a new revelation, yet I was fully engaged in the scripture study. I had questions and I felt directed to discover answers as dictated by God’s Holy Will. When we take the time to ponder the scriptures and meditate their meanings and significance, doors open, we peer into eternity, if only for a short time. I know that hope is a spiritual gift from God. He grants it as we humbly and sincerely seek it. Sustaining hope requires diligent effort. If we, if I, take the time to recognize God’s hand in life, how hope has been fulfilled in times past, confidence in the Lord’s desire and power to fulfill his promises matures. I dare say, it takes root. That confidence, that trust, that faith in God is the essence of hope. There are a number of promises I have hope for and in right now. I have hope that I will find a companion, that I will receive the blessings, challenges, and grace requisite for creating a celestial family. I hope that I will find my direction in academic and occupational pursuits. The Lord will provide the way. Today, I realized a supernal truth which granted me assurance in this whole relationship game. Hope is the assurance and confidence that the Atonement of Jesus Christ will provide us with the ability to receive eternal life. Since eternal life is the type of life that God lives and He resides in a celestial realm in the partnership relationship of a priesthood governed marriage, then hope is the assurance that the Atonement of Christ will provide me the grace to enjoy to blessings of marriage eventually. I just need patience. This gospel is one of peace and joy. I know of its truthfulness and sweet sublimity, satisfying serenity. Christ lives and I joined his spirit in sweet communion and tutorial this afternoon. It made a better day.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
Reflections from Rel C 325 (D&C 2) Homework
Three points caught my attention: Sanctification, Ardent Study, Prayer
1) D&C 76:69--"These are they who are just men made perfect through Jesus the mediator of the new covenant who wrought this perfect atonement through the shedding of his own blood."This section concerns the resurrection of the just--those consigned to celestial and terrestrial glory. The phrase "made perfect" differentiates those who are justified. In a way, it stands in for "sanctified" because that's the difference between those who receive each respective glory. The doctrines of justification (clean hands) and sanctification (a pure heart) fascinate me; it made me wonder how I have sought God to make me perfect through Jesus, move me beyond mere justification.
2) Elder Widstoe Quote--"The gospel should be studied more intensely than any school or college subject. they who pass opinion on the gospel without having given it intimate and careful study are not lovers of truth, and their opinons are worthless."I do devote far more time to my secular studies than my doctrinal feastings. Those things which are secular relate to the world better; for social as well as "practial realitites. Socially, people talk about art and science more than theology especially ina place where its assumed that everyone share the same beliefs. In practicality, secular studies appear more relational to future work and certainly influence grades greately. its just challenging to keep it in focus how far more eteranl and important gospel scholarship is. I want tot be the type of sholarly theologian than Brigham Young talks about; really fulfill the expectations of an Elder of Israel.
3) Prayer--"Pray before you study scriptures and when you have completed your study."I do okay with teh former; however, I lack any experience in teh latter. There's definitley one area I know I can improve in.
1) D&C 76:69--"These are they who are just men made perfect through Jesus the mediator of the new covenant who wrought this perfect atonement through the shedding of his own blood."This section concerns the resurrection of the just--those consigned to celestial and terrestrial glory. The phrase "made perfect" differentiates those who are justified. In a way, it stands in for "sanctified" because that's the difference between those who receive each respective glory. The doctrines of justification (clean hands) and sanctification (a pure heart) fascinate me; it made me wonder how I have sought God to make me perfect through Jesus, move me beyond mere justification.
2) Elder Widstoe Quote--"The gospel should be studied more intensely than any school or college subject. they who pass opinion on the gospel without having given it intimate and careful study are not lovers of truth, and their opinons are worthless."I do devote far more time to my secular studies than my doctrinal feastings. Those things which are secular relate to the world better; for social as well as "practial realitites. Socially, people talk about art and science more than theology especially ina place where its assumed that everyone share the same beliefs. In practicality, secular studies appear more relational to future work and certainly influence grades greately. its just challenging to keep it in focus how far more eteranl and important gospel scholarship is. I want tot be the type of sholarly theologian than Brigham Young talks about; really fulfill the expectations of an Elder of Israel.
3) Prayer--"Pray before you study scriptures and when you have completed your study."I do okay with teh former; however, I lack any experience in teh latter. There's definitley one area I know I can improve in.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Sunday Sayings
I am well pleased with this day. I left Eric’s apartment far before anyone else woke up. I thought PEC beckoned. Apparently, not checking the text messages people send carries with it consequences. But this morning I considered those consequences in a positive light: it offered me the time to complete a desired scripture study. The days feel like they possess more light than this depression and capitulation of the last month permitted. From Friday until now, I have just felt so full, so complete. I did not offer much in ward council, though I represented the elder’s quorum presidency. In priesthood, I conducted (which included selecting prayers and songs with short notice) and made a lot of comments during Bowen’s lesson on Elder Wirthlin’s talk about concern for the one, where God told me through Elder Wirthlin that he appreciates my unique quirkiness, my abnormalities. Ethan expressed his own appreciation for my appropriate comments about feeling different. I think I revel in it now. I go through the cycles. At times, most times in the past, all I saw was the isolation and loneliness, assumptions that I was outcast. Now I glory in my social infirmities, my divergent interests. I wish I had certain talents more refined than what they are at, but I believe Christ compensates for the areas in which I lack. I have room to grow and I know it. I am blessed to know what it feels like to exist out of the norm or group. And it permits me to add something dynamic, something unusual, something unexpected. And that contrary contribution harmonizes much more with the gospel than my general depression or willful rebellion.
In Sunday school, I shared far more contributions than usual as well. That’s one thing I really like about this ward: I have grown very comfortable sharing my insights. And I won’t lie, I like that people value them. That Ryan Scoffield would say he’s happy to have me in class before he starts teaching, that any of them do because they know I will say something and it will mean something to someone. I like that Brittney and Bree call me their favorite. That Andrea Jolley, came up to me at the end of one ward prayer and introduced herself to express appreciation for all of my voiced insights and comments in Sunday school—that she always learns something from what I say or add. Maybe that’s a spiritual gift, maybe that’s a talent God gave me.
The talk went well. It went long. If anyone can ramble and create the talk in the moment, it’s me. My outline was bare, but the spirit filled it. Bree’s compliment was the strongest to me because she ran up to express congratulations on a talk well done and then left to spend time with family. She went out of her way. A lot of compliments came by way of love notes. I think I will start unofficial love notes in the 56th ward. I think it will be fun. I enjoy my sense of humor, the ability to laugh at myself and recognize it for the enjoyment of others. I spoke on persecution, though I approached it more in a light of a specific form or type of chastisement, especially how it acts as a heritage of the saints or the faithful. I anchored in scriptures, my testimony, and the gospel. Different people took different things out of it. I guess that’s what happens when you talk for 30 minutes. I seriously love public speaking, or more accurately, teaching the gospel, especially at a pulpit with an indefinite amount of time. I voiced that love, and people responded that they thought that my talent matched my love. That meant a lot to me. I hope it directed someone to repent and try harder.
I think I’m ready to start radiating more, providing more service, sacrifice more time for others than myself. I know I need to maintain a healthy perspective and accomplish what I need to, but also remember sometimes that even C’s get degrees. Perhaps not the most perfect solution or the most calming to the financial nerves, but maybe a philosophy that will procure a more excellent way, offer the time and experiences necessary for the improvement and blessing of others beyond myself. I guess now it’s time to start getting ready for work. Back to the JSB. It’s interesting.
In Sunday school, I shared far more contributions than usual as well. That’s one thing I really like about this ward: I have grown very comfortable sharing my insights. And I won’t lie, I like that people value them. That Ryan Scoffield would say he’s happy to have me in class before he starts teaching, that any of them do because they know I will say something and it will mean something to someone. I like that Brittney and Bree call me their favorite. That Andrea Jolley, came up to me at the end of one ward prayer and introduced herself to express appreciation for all of my voiced insights and comments in Sunday school—that she always learns something from what I say or add. Maybe that’s a spiritual gift, maybe that’s a talent God gave me.
The talk went well. It went long. If anyone can ramble and create the talk in the moment, it’s me. My outline was bare, but the spirit filled it. Bree’s compliment was the strongest to me because she ran up to express congratulations on a talk well done and then left to spend time with family. She went out of her way. A lot of compliments came by way of love notes. I think I will start unofficial love notes in the 56th ward. I think it will be fun. I enjoy my sense of humor, the ability to laugh at myself and recognize it for the enjoyment of others. I spoke on persecution, though I approached it more in a light of a specific form or type of chastisement, especially how it acts as a heritage of the saints or the faithful. I anchored in scriptures, my testimony, and the gospel. Different people took different things out of it. I guess that’s what happens when you talk for 30 minutes. I seriously love public speaking, or more accurately, teaching the gospel, especially at a pulpit with an indefinite amount of time. I voiced that love, and people responded that they thought that my talent matched my love. That meant a lot to me. I hope it directed someone to repent and try harder.
I think I’m ready to start radiating more, providing more service, sacrifice more time for others than myself. I know I need to maintain a healthy perspective and accomplish what I need to, but also remember sometimes that even C’s get degrees. Perhaps not the most perfect solution or the most calming to the financial nerves, but maybe a philosophy that will procure a more excellent way, offer the time and experiences necessary for the improvement and blessing of others beyond myself. I guess now it’s time to start getting ready for work. Back to the JSB. It’s interesting.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Insights
Taken from an email I wrote to some friends:
Stupid little epiphanies. That's all I ask for. My life, my writing, revolves not around the giant wheels which turn the universe, this very earth on its axis, but rather the tiny cogs which no man generally bothers to look at or think about. Well, maybe not think about. I tend to hope that my little pithy observations garner some matter of appeal as readers realize that we all reflect on the small, inconsequential matters. Perhaps reactions and meditations vary, yet all of mankind ultimately reflects to some degree, great or small, on the moment. So my life and writing rests not on what no one thinks but instead what no one voices or articulates. I believe most do not bother to explore the meaningless minutia since humanity grows accustomed to its surroundings, its habits; the ordinary falls amidst a cloud of white noise. While it frustrates and quickens me to no end, my growth from a prior lack of experiences unto an increasing awareness what comprises the abundant life cuts my heart as a two-edged sword. Prompting regret and sorrow over unfamiliarity with what it appears everyone around me already knows, I ever feel removed from time and society. I do not know that I can connect with others since I do no possess a common foundation of basic experiences, common sense, and prepared abilities. This sensation generally arrives whenever sporting events arise or present themselves. However, I also recognize that such an alienation magnified my appreciation for the mundane. I never took the miracles in the moment for granted. God opened my eyes to behold a world of intricate designs. My exploration often resulted in more questions and a piercing conviction that despite what knowledge I possessed, I knew quite little. I took comfort in each tiny insight, each unanswered question posed in those circumstances as it unfolded the simple complexities of the Lord's designs.
Then they stopped. Or I stopped listening, ceased striving. I'm not sure what changed, but the spark of insight dimmed. I do not know that I visit the source of the little epiphaies anymore. All miracles we witness come by faith. Faith works with words, deeds, and actions. Did my shifting behavior alter the way by which I percieve the world and the intricacies holding it together? Or did the sword finally strike down all the source of sorrow, offering an alternative explanation far more confusing while reassuring? In addition to a lack of sleep, poor nutritional choices, fatigue with interminable schooling, a mounting fear of isolation and loneliness, venomous angst with a job I despise beyond previous measure, and a number of other personal demons at the door, the termination of one reservoir of depression ironically served to supply overwhelming despair. Let's see if I can't explain that better. What once brought saddness from experiencing the new, namely the regret that I had to wait so long in life to experience what all others knew for so long, diminshed as such unexplored fronteirs closed with my introduction to them. Yet again, the sword drove asunder its double edge. Decimating the regret simultaneously slashed the appreciation for the mundane, the vision of the miracle in the moment. I had seen those hidden cogs and their splendor adopted normality, regularity. I rejoice over a multitude of memories and discoveries. I mourn for my forsaken vision; the ear, the eye, the heart I turned from the epiphanies of eternity. The lamentations drowned out the genuine celebration upon my permission.
My writing means more to me than I let myself realize. As people or institutions attack or critisize it, they inflict wounds on my soul. Since I rarely let myself perceive any admirable qualities within myself, and writing constitutes one measurable or testable talent, I suppose I place all the emotional eggs of my self-evaluative basket in my paragraphs and prose. For another to berate my creations, that hurts beyond expression. To find the well of inspiration dry, to sit before the computer or pad of paper with an existential emptiness, that brings one to stare into oblivion, questioning the joy one once knew and currently finds. If I cannot articulate the schism occurring within, the chasm between hope and misery, if I fail at capturing the moments of my new life and see nothing to describe, who am I? If not a writer, if not an observer, where lies my worth? my talents? my reason to exist? If all else flees from me, cannot I yet retain the capacity to stand outside of time and space to record the marvelous miracles in the lives of others? Why the oblivion, why the emptiness, why such darkness?
And in confusion, a voice calls out: "Never fall into the trap of thinking that God is now indebted to you...If anything, now you are evermore indebted to him."
Recently, I reflected on an old musing. Once in Oregon, I felt that the promises did not add up. We were promised that if we fasted, if we prayed, if we studied diligently, if we strived for pure obedience, if we followed the spirit, if we sacrificed everything precious to our hearts, if we served in faith, if we sought perfection as commanded, working with a strength supplied only by the grace of God, that success would bloom. Teaching opportunities would emerge, miracles would unfold, and we would find joy in the worth of one saved soul. And yet despite all references to a section in the missionary guide about the true measure of a successful missionary, the failure in honored commitments, the hours of unrealized prayers, and the inability to separate the promises of personal salvation and growth with the doctrine of agency in others led me to lay the explanation of failure not on the Lord or others but myself. I must not have prayed or fasted or studied or sacrificed purely and faithfully enough. My heart turned too much towards Babylon in the moment. My eyes were not yet opened with an understanding of simplicity. The requirements, those hours of prayers, fasts, tracting, they were never intended to bring the promise of success in conversion. No amount of work and effort on my part would ever result in the discovery of a soul, the sanctification and exaltation of a soul. Rather those efforts provided a path whereby my heart might stand purified, my soul cleansed, my faith magnified to invite with conviction. The difference runs gently as a river in subtlety. A babbling brook whispers secrets of serenity, but only to heart contrite and a mind bowed in humility. It is to hear His voice, to be His sheep. My efforts were my own for me. I was to work out my own salvation in fear and trembling; to care for others, to serve others, but not to dictate others, control others, or even manipulate others by my own expressions of faith.
The contemporary reflection: that lesson yet applies. The promise is there for companionship, for an exalting friendship. We are promised that if we fast, if we pray, if we study diligently, if we strive for pure obedience, if we follow the spirit, if we sacrifice everything precious to our hearts, if we serve in faith, if we sought perfection as commanded, working with a strength supplied only by the grace of God, that success will bloom. A friendship will emerge, a miracle unfold, and we would find joy in the worth of one celestial soul to stand as a companion and helpmeet. And yet, frustrations, impatience with the plan of One more holy threatens a convicted faith. In truth, the works by which we magnfiy our faith and prepare for an exalting friendship, an holy companionship, do not procure such relationships. That is not to say they are not efficacious in their own right. When the time for performance arrives, the time for preparation has passed. When it comes down to it, I do not know that my right hand was entirely honest in intent with my left hand. I performed my efforts in a just matter, the Spirit could testify of such; yet, I believe each fast performed, each prayer offered, each scripture studied, each temple ordinance participated in, harbored within it some secret desire of compensation, reward. That another might see and either compliment or regard me with honor, that I might be stronger and smarter in spiritual matters than my brethren, my siblings in Christ and the kingdom for I felt in no other way could I compare, that in due course the Lord would place in my path a choice daughter to know my heart and walk by my side. My service lacked holiness. As the saying goes, good intentions pave the road to Hell. I do not say nor believe that every work I offered unto the Lord possessed a drop of impurity. Instead I hope to confess and forsake the practice of taking any offering of service and faith to the Almighty with alterior motives or selfish desires.
With the passage of time, the frustrations of failure accumulated; ever placing faith in misconstrued principles, expecting God to follow up on promises and laws He never made. I fell. My flesh and impatience convinced parts of my heart that my work indebted God to me. The body and spirit comprising my soul maintained a formidable fortress against many of the tools and temptations designed by the advesary. It was only in small areas, line by line, that I turned and kept from the Lord. But Arthur Miller once penned, "Theology is a fortress; no crack in a fortress can be accounted as small." God owes me nothing. Without God, I am nothing. I know that outside of this Gospel, I lacked everything. It is only in this Truth that I know hope.
For those close to me, I apologize for how my struggles with depression affected you. As one who has consistently feared my own existence and presence plauged those around me as a burden, a realization of how taxing my inexplicable despair must be to my friends made me feel with greater intensity that I was indeed a burden. I mean to bring hope, to smile and generate happiness. For dwelling on darker matters, I seek redress. For draining your resevoirs of peace and grace, offering nothing in return, I wish to make amends. In the past weeks, struggling to find my words, hoping to write my soul to strength, I kept returning to a letter written by Virginia Woolf. It seemed to possess all that I felt and knew:
"I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier 'til this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been."
But that's not how I feel. It's not how I choose to feel. I will, by the grace of God and every fighting fiber left in me, proceed to a more excellent way. I choose not the suffocating anesthetic of despair but the violent jolt of the gospel, that is my choice. It requires all, it demands everything, it is all that I can know and hope to live. I peer into oblivion and know its not for me. I live with the threat of my own extinction, and the will to live beats stronger. To those who have fought for my soul in a battleground of faith and friendship, I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. Everythings has not gone from me because of the certainty of your goodness. I love you and know that though we wrestle in dark, in the deep dark, of what seems the blackest of Fridays, that Sunday will come. I now hold the words of Dante close to my heart:
"In that book which is my memory, on the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you, appear the words, 'Here begins the new life.'"
I'm grateful for the volumes of memory I am collecting, the books in which I know each of you. It makes the battle worth it. It makes the struggle seem simple. The epiphanies arrive. The answers come home to the hearts that seek them. We are not only our lives here, but entities on and of eternity. Our spirits descended from celestial realms and may, through obedience to the laws and ordinances of the gospel, return to such anticipated glory. Through diligence, faith, and patience, a taste of that peace presents itself for our betterment, for our communion with God's love.
Well, this one's lengthy as it is. How about a break into a song. I pick this one since I think it fits, but also because it makes me think of my maternal grandfather. I like to think that I could hear him playing it on his banjo. I wish I knew him better. I wish we all knew each other better. Can we ever learn to take down the walls we erect around ourselves? Can't we do more to trust and to love? In time, until then, here's an American classic. Enjoy:
Some bright morning when this life is over I'll fly away To that home on God's celestial shore I'll fly away I'll fly away oh glory I'll fly away in the morning When I die hallelujah by and by I'll fly away When the shadows of this life have goneI'll fly away Like a bird from these prison walls I'll flyI'll fly away
I'll fly away oh glory I'll fly away in the morning When I die hallelujah by and by I'll fly away
Oh how glad and happy when we meetI'll fly awayNo more cold iron shackles on my feetI'll fly away
I'll fly away oh glory I'll fly away in the morning When I die hallelujah by and by I'll fly away
Just a few more weary days and then I'll fly away To a land where joys will never end I'll fly away
I'll fly away oh glory I'll fly away in the morning When I die hallelujah by and by I'll fly away
Might we all meet such love, not just in that time to come,
but everyday and twice on Sundays,
--Allan
You cannot find peace by avoiding life.
--Virginia Woolf in The Hours
Stupid little epiphanies. That's all I ask for. My life, my writing, revolves not around the giant wheels which turn the universe, this very earth on its axis, but rather the tiny cogs which no man generally bothers to look at or think about. Well, maybe not think about. I tend to hope that my little pithy observations garner some matter of appeal as readers realize that we all reflect on the small, inconsequential matters. Perhaps reactions and meditations vary, yet all of mankind ultimately reflects to some degree, great or small, on the moment. So my life and writing rests not on what no one thinks but instead what no one voices or articulates. I believe most do not bother to explore the meaningless minutia since humanity grows accustomed to its surroundings, its habits; the ordinary falls amidst a cloud of white noise. While it frustrates and quickens me to no end, my growth from a prior lack of experiences unto an increasing awareness what comprises the abundant life cuts my heart as a two-edged sword. Prompting regret and sorrow over unfamiliarity with what it appears everyone around me already knows, I ever feel removed from time and society. I do not know that I can connect with others since I do no possess a common foundation of basic experiences, common sense, and prepared abilities. This sensation generally arrives whenever sporting events arise or present themselves. However, I also recognize that such an alienation magnified my appreciation for the mundane. I never took the miracles in the moment for granted. God opened my eyes to behold a world of intricate designs. My exploration often resulted in more questions and a piercing conviction that despite what knowledge I possessed, I knew quite little. I took comfort in each tiny insight, each unanswered question posed in those circumstances as it unfolded the simple complexities of the Lord's designs.
Then they stopped. Or I stopped listening, ceased striving. I'm not sure what changed, but the spark of insight dimmed. I do not know that I visit the source of the little epiphaies anymore. All miracles we witness come by faith. Faith works with words, deeds, and actions. Did my shifting behavior alter the way by which I percieve the world and the intricacies holding it together? Or did the sword finally strike down all the source of sorrow, offering an alternative explanation far more confusing while reassuring? In addition to a lack of sleep, poor nutritional choices, fatigue with interminable schooling, a mounting fear of isolation and loneliness, venomous angst with a job I despise beyond previous measure, and a number of other personal demons at the door, the termination of one reservoir of depression ironically served to supply overwhelming despair. Let's see if I can't explain that better. What once brought saddness from experiencing the new, namely the regret that I had to wait so long in life to experience what all others knew for so long, diminshed as such unexplored fronteirs closed with my introduction to them. Yet again, the sword drove asunder its double edge. Decimating the regret simultaneously slashed the appreciation for the mundane, the vision of the miracle in the moment. I had seen those hidden cogs and their splendor adopted normality, regularity. I rejoice over a multitude of memories and discoveries. I mourn for my forsaken vision; the ear, the eye, the heart I turned from the epiphanies of eternity. The lamentations drowned out the genuine celebration upon my permission.
My writing means more to me than I let myself realize. As people or institutions attack or critisize it, they inflict wounds on my soul. Since I rarely let myself perceive any admirable qualities within myself, and writing constitutes one measurable or testable talent, I suppose I place all the emotional eggs of my self-evaluative basket in my paragraphs and prose. For another to berate my creations, that hurts beyond expression. To find the well of inspiration dry, to sit before the computer or pad of paper with an existential emptiness, that brings one to stare into oblivion, questioning the joy one once knew and currently finds. If I cannot articulate the schism occurring within, the chasm between hope and misery, if I fail at capturing the moments of my new life and see nothing to describe, who am I? If not a writer, if not an observer, where lies my worth? my talents? my reason to exist? If all else flees from me, cannot I yet retain the capacity to stand outside of time and space to record the marvelous miracles in the lives of others? Why the oblivion, why the emptiness, why such darkness?
And in confusion, a voice calls out: "Never fall into the trap of thinking that God is now indebted to you...If anything, now you are evermore indebted to him."
Recently, I reflected on an old musing. Once in Oregon, I felt that the promises did not add up. We were promised that if we fasted, if we prayed, if we studied diligently, if we strived for pure obedience, if we followed the spirit, if we sacrificed everything precious to our hearts, if we served in faith, if we sought perfection as commanded, working with a strength supplied only by the grace of God, that success would bloom. Teaching opportunities would emerge, miracles would unfold, and we would find joy in the worth of one saved soul. And yet despite all references to a section in the missionary guide about the true measure of a successful missionary, the failure in honored commitments, the hours of unrealized prayers, and the inability to separate the promises of personal salvation and growth with the doctrine of agency in others led me to lay the explanation of failure not on the Lord or others but myself. I must not have prayed or fasted or studied or sacrificed purely and faithfully enough. My heart turned too much towards Babylon in the moment. My eyes were not yet opened with an understanding of simplicity. The requirements, those hours of prayers, fasts, tracting, they were never intended to bring the promise of success in conversion. No amount of work and effort on my part would ever result in the discovery of a soul, the sanctification and exaltation of a soul. Rather those efforts provided a path whereby my heart might stand purified, my soul cleansed, my faith magnified to invite with conviction. The difference runs gently as a river in subtlety. A babbling brook whispers secrets of serenity, but only to heart contrite and a mind bowed in humility. It is to hear His voice, to be His sheep. My efforts were my own for me. I was to work out my own salvation in fear and trembling; to care for others, to serve others, but not to dictate others, control others, or even manipulate others by my own expressions of faith.
The contemporary reflection: that lesson yet applies. The promise is there for companionship, for an exalting friendship. We are promised that if we fast, if we pray, if we study diligently, if we strive for pure obedience, if we follow the spirit, if we sacrifice everything precious to our hearts, if we serve in faith, if we sought perfection as commanded, working with a strength supplied only by the grace of God, that success will bloom. A friendship will emerge, a miracle unfold, and we would find joy in the worth of one celestial soul to stand as a companion and helpmeet. And yet, frustrations, impatience with the plan of One more holy threatens a convicted faith. In truth, the works by which we magnfiy our faith and prepare for an exalting friendship, an holy companionship, do not procure such relationships. That is not to say they are not efficacious in their own right. When the time for performance arrives, the time for preparation has passed. When it comes down to it, I do not know that my right hand was entirely honest in intent with my left hand. I performed my efforts in a just matter, the Spirit could testify of such; yet, I believe each fast performed, each prayer offered, each scripture studied, each temple ordinance participated in, harbored within it some secret desire of compensation, reward. That another might see and either compliment or regard me with honor, that I might be stronger and smarter in spiritual matters than my brethren, my siblings in Christ and the kingdom for I felt in no other way could I compare, that in due course the Lord would place in my path a choice daughter to know my heart and walk by my side. My service lacked holiness. As the saying goes, good intentions pave the road to Hell. I do not say nor believe that every work I offered unto the Lord possessed a drop of impurity. Instead I hope to confess and forsake the practice of taking any offering of service and faith to the Almighty with alterior motives or selfish desires.
With the passage of time, the frustrations of failure accumulated; ever placing faith in misconstrued principles, expecting God to follow up on promises and laws He never made. I fell. My flesh and impatience convinced parts of my heart that my work indebted God to me. The body and spirit comprising my soul maintained a formidable fortress against many of the tools and temptations designed by the advesary. It was only in small areas, line by line, that I turned and kept from the Lord. But Arthur Miller once penned, "Theology is a fortress; no crack in a fortress can be accounted as small." God owes me nothing. Without God, I am nothing. I know that outside of this Gospel, I lacked everything. It is only in this Truth that I know hope.
For those close to me, I apologize for how my struggles with depression affected you. As one who has consistently feared my own existence and presence plauged those around me as a burden, a realization of how taxing my inexplicable despair must be to my friends made me feel with greater intensity that I was indeed a burden. I mean to bring hope, to smile and generate happiness. For dwelling on darker matters, I seek redress. For draining your resevoirs of peace and grace, offering nothing in return, I wish to make amends. In the past weeks, struggling to find my words, hoping to write my soul to strength, I kept returning to a letter written by Virginia Woolf. It seemed to possess all that I felt and knew:
"I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier 'til this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been."
But that's not how I feel. It's not how I choose to feel. I will, by the grace of God and every fighting fiber left in me, proceed to a more excellent way. I choose not the suffocating anesthetic of despair but the violent jolt of the gospel, that is my choice. It requires all, it demands everything, it is all that I can know and hope to live. I peer into oblivion and know its not for me. I live with the threat of my own extinction, and the will to live beats stronger. To those who have fought for my soul in a battleground of faith and friendship, I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. Everythings has not gone from me because of the certainty of your goodness. I love you and know that though we wrestle in dark, in the deep dark, of what seems the blackest of Fridays, that Sunday will come. I now hold the words of Dante close to my heart:
"In that book which is my memory, on the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you, appear the words, 'Here begins the new life.'"
I'm grateful for the volumes of memory I am collecting, the books in which I know each of you. It makes the battle worth it. It makes the struggle seem simple. The epiphanies arrive. The answers come home to the hearts that seek them. We are not only our lives here, but entities on and of eternity. Our spirits descended from celestial realms and may, through obedience to the laws and ordinances of the gospel, return to such anticipated glory. Through diligence, faith, and patience, a taste of that peace presents itself for our betterment, for our communion with God's love.
Well, this one's lengthy as it is. How about a break into a song. I pick this one since I think it fits, but also because it makes me think of my maternal grandfather. I like to think that I could hear him playing it on his banjo. I wish I knew him better. I wish we all knew each other better. Can we ever learn to take down the walls we erect around ourselves? Can't we do more to trust and to love? In time, until then, here's an American classic. Enjoy:
Some bright morning when this life is over I'll fly away To that home on God's celestial shore I'll fly away I'll fly away oh glory I'll fly away in the morning When I die hallelujah by and by I'll fly away When the shadows of this life have goneI'll fly away Like a bird from these prison walls I'll flyI'll fly away
I'll fly away oh glory I'll fly away in the morning When I die hallelujah by and by I'll fly away
Oh how glad and happy when we meetI'll fly awayNo more cold iron shackles on my feetI'll fly away
I'll fly away oh glory I'll fly away in the morning When I die hallelujah by and by I'll fly away
Just a few more weary days and then I'll fly away To a land where joys will never end I'll fly away
I'll fly away oh glory I'll fly away in the morning When I die hallelujah by and by I'll fly away
Might we all meet such love, not just in that time to come,
but everyday and twice on Sundays,
--Allan
You cannot find peace by avoiding life.
--Virginia Woolf in The Hours
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