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Friday, December 30, 2011
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Lazarus and the Christmas Tree Lights: No Squinting Required
Spoiler alert:
While this piece was written with the intent of providing a bit of inspiration to all of my Facebook friends, it touches on the Christmas season from the perspective of those who are suffering, sad, or alone. I have always believed that God has a particular affinity for the downtrodden, but I also believe that those with “cups that runneth over” are looked after with the same grace and mercy as those who are facing the holidays behind forced smiles and feigned laughter.
Whichever side of the fence our lot falls on this year, we can be sure that we have not escaped the eyes of our maker.
A couple of nights ago, Katherine and I were having a conversation after dinner. Unfortunately, we had gotten some bad news concerning a family member. Katherine was visibly distraught as she told me the details of what had happened. With a trembling lip ( and what seemed to be a hint of guilt), she remarked that, try as she might, she just couldn’t get into the Christmas spirit this year.
Her remarks got me to thinking about the holiday season in general, and, in particular, what exactly it means to have the Christmas spirit.
As I scanned through the archives of my own Christmases past, I had to admit that I have become accustomed to cultivating a special spirit during the month of December that is, for whatever reason, not as discernible during other times of celebration. There is a magic of sorts that seems to lay hold of us as we carouse the shopping districts and breathe in the aroma of freshly cut Fraser firs decorated with decades of memorable keepsakes. We feel a profound sense of well-being as we watch and re-watch old holiday movies that have become family traditions dating back to our own childhood. Perhaps the magic of Christmas can best be summed up for many of us in the spirit of these old TV segments. They have a way (if only for a moment) of making us feel like a kid again.
Isn't that what Christmas is about?
But what do we do if some of that childlike magic is missing from our Christmas season?
What if, despite our best efforts at keeping a positive attitude, those trusty old Christmas classics fall a little short in turning the portkey that opens the door to childlike wonder?
What if the lights don’t seem to sparkle quite as brightly as they did when we were squinting with our ten-year-old eyes in front of the Christmas tree?
And what if our trip to the department store in search of Lindor chocolates and other Christmas goodies feels a little bit stale and hollowed out?
If my memory serves me correctly, there have been a few holiday seasons in my life where that special spark of Christmas magic wouldn’t come.
For instance, there was the year my step-dad passed away.
Then there was the year my Grandma passed after a prolonged illness.
The terrorist attacks on New York and Washington D.C. took some of the luster out of the 2001 holiday celebration.
And there have, as the scriptures predicted, been “wars and rumors of wars”, with many of our nation’s servicemen and women leaving family members back in the States to gaze longingly at pictures of dads, moms, sons, and daughters who would not be joining the rest of the family in front of the Christmas tree.
Even in the midst of these and other challenges, many of us are able to overcome the forces of darkness and settle snugly into our blanket of holiday cheer. There are a few instances, however, when (try as we might), we are swallowed up in the enormity of circumstances beyond our control.
As I have thought about a few of the stumbling blocks we might face while trying to get in tune with the Christmas spirit, I have come to the conclusion that it is very easy to confuse our temporal "creature comforts" with the actual spirituality that attends the holiday season. Since, in many instances, the two events (temporal comforts and spirituality) converge in perfect rhythm with our scheduled activities, we can sometimes find ourselves feeling forgotten or lacking in faith if that magical chemistry won’t come together as we think it should.
We might even feel a bit guilty if our holiday smile isn't completely genuine.
For our family, the days leading up to this year's celebration of Jesus' birth have been replete with opposition and turmoil. We have witnessed suffering among friends and family on a scale we have never experienced. As a result, we have learned that if we truly love one another, it is impossible to avoid being deeply affected by what we see going on in the world around us. I make this statement acknowledging that my awareness of suffering has been quickened this year because of its close proximity to those with whom I am well-acquainted, and that many of the more "magical" Christmas seasons I have enjoyed have been spent in blissful ignorance of the suffering going on in the lives of those I didn't know as well. Regardless of the semantics of experiencing joy during the Christmas season, it has been one of those years when our family has had to fight to keep the magic in the holiday. From this, I have learned that the bleak moments in which we witness or experience untimely struggles can serve to bring us closer to God, and can actually accentuate the real meaning of why we observe a world-wide celebration each year.
I build much of my case from the account of Jesus’ inspired words in the New Testament:
The sermon on the mount serves as a blanket of comfort for those who are dealing with challenges at any season in life, but it has particular significance for those who are struggling at Christmastime. I am reminded of the Savior’s words to an ancient American prophet who was facing the extinction of his people because of their collective faith in God:
In the face of likely annihilation and subsequent extinction, the Savior’s advice to Nephi was simple but profound:
“Lift up your head, and be of good cheer.” he said, “for behold, the time is at hand, and on this night shall the sign be given,"
But what was the sign?
It was light.....a light shining in the darkness of a troubled world.
The shepherds in their fields saw it.
The wise men saw it.
Nephi saw it.
We, too can see it, if we are looking up.
Perhaps, at one time or another, we have all wasted away a portion of our holiday season chasing the creature comforts we are accustomed to enjoying. In vain, we might even shut ourselves up in the confines of the living room with our eyes focused on the Christmas tree lights, thinking that if we can somehow squint hard enough and hold our mouth just the right way, the magic will come.
But, as Boyd K. Packer once said, “You cannot force spiritual things.”
To everything there is a season.
There will be years when our cup runneth over. There will be times when we are filled with a sense of peace and happiness beyond anything we are capable of experiencing in the confines of our natural emotions.
We will know intimately what Lehi meant when he said:
“Man is that he might have joy.”
But there are other times when all we will be able to do is groan inside, lament our losses, and hang on for dear life.
Mary, the sister of Lazarus did exactly that:
“Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.”
Jesus did not rebuke her for a lack of faith.
Instead, the scriptures tell us that He wept with her.
Then He performed a miracle.
And Lazarus lived again.
It was a taste of good things to come for all of us.
As we approach the eve of our Savior’s birth, I am grateful to feel His spirit attending our family....perhaps more so than usual.
Charles Dickens summed up the year in review for many of us:
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
While the worst of those times have somewhat subdued our desire for boisterous celebration this year, we nonetheless have reason to smile.
Just in the nick of time, our family abandoned the squinting-at-the-tree tradition and stepped out into the night for a breath of fresh air. As it always has at Christmastime, the special star shone bright and clear against the figurative backdrop of the black sky.
Somehow, that star seems to shine brightest when the night is at its darkest.
If you ask me, that's the real magic of the Christmas season.
For my friends who’s cup runneth over, I toast your good health and pray for another year of peace and prosperity.
For those who have suffered (and are continuing to suffer) this year, I repeat the words of the Master:
“Lift up your head and be of good cheer”
Step outside and try to look up.
If you listen carefully, the still, small voice will whisper words of peace to your heart this Christmas season:
You know the rest of the story.
Lazarous came forth.
In one way or another, so shall we.
Merry Christmas, Facebook friends.
As you look into the night sky, may you hear the echo of a baby's cry and bask in the afterglow of a star that will shine forever as a beacon to the wounded, the weary, and the pure in heart....no squinting required.
While this piece was written with the intent of providing a bit of inspiration to all of my Facebook friends, it touches on the Christmas season from the perspective of those who are suffering, sad, or alone. I have always believed that God has a particular affinity for the downtrodden, but I also believe that those with “cups that runneth over” are looked after with the same grace and mercy as those who are facing the holidays behind forced smiles and feigned laughter.
Whichever side of the fence our lot falls on this year, we can be sure that we have not escaped the eyes of our maker.
A couple of nights ago, Katherine and I were having a conversation after dinner. Unfortunately, we had gotten some bad news concerning a family member. Katherine was visibly distraught as she told me the details of what had happened. With a trembling lip ( and what seemed to be a hint of guilt), she remarked that, try as she might, she just couldn’t get into the Christmas spirit this year.
Her remarks got me to thinking about the holiday season in general, and, in particular, what exactly it means to have the Christmas spirit.
As I scanned through the archives of my own Christmases past, I had to admit that I have become accustomed to cultivating a special spirit during the month of December that is, for whatever reason, not as discernible during other times of celebration. There is a magic of sorts that seems to lay hold of us as we carouse the shopping districts and breathe in the aroma of freshly cut Fraser firs decorated with decades of memorable keepsakes. We feel a profound sense of well-being as we watch and re-watch old holiday movies that have become family traditions dating back to our own childhood. Perhaps the magic of Christmas can best be summed up for many of us in the spirit of these old TV segments. They have a way (if only for a moment) of making us feel like a kid again.
Isn't that what Christmas is about?
But what do we do if some of that childlike magic is missing from our Christmas season?
What if, despite our best efforts at keeping a positive attitude, those trusty old Christmas classics fall a little short in turning the portkey that opens the door to childlike wonder?
What if the lights don’t seem to sparkle quite as brightly as they did when we were squinting with our ten-year-old eyes in front of the Christmas tree?
And what if our trip to the department store in search of Lindor chocolates and other Christmas goodies feels a little bit stale and hollowed out?
If my memory serves me correctly, there have been a few holiday seasons in my life where that special spark of Christmas magic wouldn’t come.
For instance, there was the year my step-dad passed away.
Then there was the year my Grandma passed after a prolonged illness.
The terrorist attacks on New York and Washington D.C. took some of the luster out of the 2001 holiday celebration.
And there have, as the scriptures predicted, been “wars and rumors of wars”, with many of our nation’s servicemen and women leaving family members back in the States to gaze longingly at pictures of dads, moms, sons, and daughters who would not be joining the rest of the family in front of the Christmas tree.
Even in the midst of these and other challenges, many of us are able to overcome the forces of darkness and settle snugly into our blanket of holiday cheer. There are a few instances, however, when (try as we might), we are swallowed up in the enormity of circumstances beyond our control.
As I have thought about a few of the stumbling blocks we might face while trying to get in tune with the Christmas spirit, I have come to the conclusion that it is very easy to confuse our temporal "creature comforts" with the actual spirituality that attends the holiday season. Since, in many instances, the two events (temporal comforts and spirituality) converge in perfect rhythm with our scheduled activities, we can sometimes find ourselves feeling forgotten or lacking in faith if that magical chemistry won’t come together as we think it should.
We might even feel a bit guilty if our holiday smile isn't completely genuine.
For our family, the days leading up to this year's celebration of Jesus' birth have been replete with opposition and turmoil. We have witnessed suffering among friends and family on a scale we have never experienced. As a result, we have learned that if we truly love one another, it is impossible to avoid being deeply affected by what we see going on in the world around us. I make this statement acknowledging that my awareness of suffering has been quickened this year because of its close proximity to those with whom I am well-acquainted, and that many of the more "magical" Christmas seasons I have enjoyed have been spent in blissful ignorance of the suffering going on in the lives of those I didn't know as well. Regardless of the semantics of experiencing joy during the Christmas season, it has been one of those years when our family has had to fight to keep the magic in the holiday. From this, I have learned that the bleak moments in which we witness or experience untimely struggles can serve to bring us closer to God, and can actually accentuate the real meaning of why we observe a world-wide celebration each year.
I build much of my case from the account of Jesus’ inspired words in the New Testament:
“And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain: and when he was set, his disciples came unto him:
And he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying,
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.
Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.”
The sermon on the mount serves as a blanket of comfort for those who are dealing with challenges at any season in life, but it has particular significance for those who are struggling at Christmastime. I am reminded of the Savior’s words to an ancient American prophet who was facing the extinction of his people because of their collective faith in God:
“And it came to pass that he (Nephi) went out and bowed himself down upon the earth, and cried mightily to his God in behalf of his people, yea, those who were about to be destroyed because of their faith in the tradition of their fathers.
And it came to pass that he cried mightily unto the Lord all that day; and behold, the voice of the Lord came unto him, saying:
Lift up your head and be of good cheer; for behold, the time is at hand, and on this night shall the sign be given, and on the morrow come I into the world, to show unto the world that I will fulfill all that which I have caused to be spoken by the mouth of my holy prophets.
In the face of likely annihilation and subsequent extinction, the Savior’s advice to Nephi was simple but profound:
“Lift up your head, and be of good cheer.” he said, “for behold, the time is at hand, and on this night shall the sign be given,"
But what was the sign?
It was light.....a light shining in the darkness of a troubled world.
The shepherds in their fields saw it.
The wise men saw it.
Nephi saw it.
We, too can see it, if we are looking up.
Perhaps, at one time or another, we have all wasted away a portion of our holiday season chasing the creature comforts we are accustomed to enjoying. In vain, we might even shut ourselves up in the confines of the living room with our eyes focused on the Christmas tree lights, thinking that if we can somehow squint hard enough and hold our mouth just the right way, the magic will come.
But, as Boyd K. Packer once said, “You cannot force spiritual things.”
To everything there is a season.
There will be years when our cup runneth over. There will be times when we are filled with a sense of peace and happiness beyond anything we are capable of experiencing in the confines of our natural emotions.
We will know intimately what Lehi meant when he said:
“Man is that he might have joy.”
But there are other times when all we will be able to do is groan inside, lament our losses, and hang on for dear life.
Mary, the sister of Lazarus did exactly that:
“Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.”
Jesus did not rebuke her for a lack of faith.
Instead, the scriptures tell us that He wept with her.
Then He performed a miracle.
And Lazarus lived again.
It was a taste of good things to come for all of us.
As we approach the eve of our Savior’s birth, I am grateful to feel His spirit attending our family....perhaps more so than usual.
Charles Dickens summed up the year in review for many of us:
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
While the worst of those times have somewhat subdued our desire for boisterous celebration this year, we nonetheless have reason to smile.
Just in the nick of time, our family abandoned the squinting-at-the-tree tradition and stepped out into the night for a breath of fresh air. As it always has at Christmastime, the special star shone bright and clear against the figurative backdrop of the black sky.
Somehow, that star seems to shine brightest when the night is at its darkest.
If you ask me, that's the real magic of the Christmas season.
For my friends who’s cup runneth over, I toast your good health and pray for another year of peace and prosperity.
For those who have suffered (and are continuing to suffer) this year, I repeat the words of the Master:
“Lift up your head and be of good cheer”
Step outside and try to look up.
If you listen carefully, the still, small voice will whisper words of peace to your heart this Christmas season:
“Said I not unto thee, that, if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?”
You know the rest of the story.
Lazarous came forth.
In one way or another, so shall we.
Merry Christmas, Facebook friends.
As you look into the night sky, may you hear the echo of a baby's cry and bask in the afterglow of a star that will shine forever as a beacon to the wounded, the weary, and the pure in heart....no squinting required.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
The Shell Collector
The last Saturday in November is officially the day of recovery after Black Friday.
It is a day when sanity is restored and reason is reinstated after a twenty-four hour period of madness.
There are no sales. No deadlines. No hoopla.
Each year, our family drives six hours south to spend Thanksgiving at the beach with Katherine’s parents, and there is usually no question about what we will do with our extra time on lazy-days. We kick off our shoes, pack up the car, and head down to the ocean. Today, under the banner of a warm Indian summer sun, we made the short trek east across the inter-coastal waterway to greet the fall surf.
It was a good day for a walk.
Matthew, with his blue corduroys rolled up to his knees, ran uninhibited toward the receding tide with secret plans of hosting a one-man diving excursion while mom and dad weren’t looking. Kendall opted for quieter diversions, and split off to collect sea shells. After walking along the cool salt water with Katherine and Matthew for awhile, I decided to join Kendall on her search for the perfect conch.
“I don’t like collecting shells,” she mumbled as we walked along.
I was a little surprised by her statement, and asked her what had soured her on the prospect.
“I have to carry the cup,” she complained, glancing down at the plastic cup she was carrying as a temporary holding bin for her shells.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
Earlier, Kendall had done her best to push the responsibility of tending to the cup off on me. After absorbing the "no" she surely knew was coming, she went to work on Katherine, and finally, having no success, tried to connive her unsuspecting younger brother into taking over her cup duty so that she could walk along the beach unhindered. Charity was sparser than usual, and despite her best efforts, she was stuck with the cup.
We continued to walk and look for shells.
After awhile, I looked into the plastic cup and noticed that Kendall had collected some halfway-decent looking specimens.
Mingling with the unblemished shells were a few broken-off, faded out fragments that I couldn’t quite figure out.
“What’s with the broken shells?” I asked. “You’re only supposed to collect the ones that are whole.”
Kendall looked at the shells in question, temporarily forgot her ire about having to carry the cup, and made a case for keeping the fragments.
“Well...they're still pretty,” she said.
I shrugged and continued to walk. Meanwhile, Matthew had found water pooling in a large, shallow crater in the sand. The sun warmed the 6 -inch deep water to a pleasant balminess, enticing Matthew to take the plunge and go for full-body immersion.
“You missed a spot,” I yelled, noticing a small area on his shirt that was untouched by the water and wet sand.
Matthew looked up and continued his splashing, blissfully unaware and completely unconcerned with his sopping wet clothes and diaper.
I shook my head at his antics.
“Ignorance is bliss,” I thought to myself as I reflected on his generally care-free attitude toward life.
Later, as we walked back toward the car, I was struck with the simple wisdom that both of my children had unknowingly contributed to our afternoon walk.
Kendall, who had spent the afternoon mingling broken shells with those that were whole, was convinced that all of them were beautiful regardless of their condition.
Her choice of keepsakes brought to mind a verse from the New Testament:
“They that are whole have no need of the physician,” Jesus said, “but they that are sick: I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.
Jesus later reminded us that our heavenly Father is well-invested in the business of restoring things that are broken.
“I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.”
As Jeffery R. Holland once said, God seems to take special note of “broken things to mend"; especially those that have been left lying helpless and stranded on the beaches of His creation. To be sure, if the Savior had been walking with Kendall today, He would have smiled when He looked inside of her plastic cup.
“They’re still pretty,” she said simply.
Well said.
Matthew on the other hand, fell headlong into the ocean and then plowed like a bull through ankle-deep water before we could get our hands on him to stop him. Blissfully unaware of the rules of civility and how things “should be,” he didn’t quite understand why his antics led to our walk on the ocean being terminated.
Soaked and covered with sand, he was quite ready to continue the festivities for as long as he was able.
Kind of reminds me of our own relationship with a perfect, all-knowing God.
Despite our best efforts, our feeble claims to personal righteousness (at least while being impaired by pride and self-will) are compared to “filthy rags” when illuminated by the perfect holiness of a just God. More often than we probably think, we go blundering through life, soaked and sandy, with no inkling that we have fallen into deep water and need to be dried off.
Yet God is merciful to us in our fallen condition.
He does not demand perfection of us....at least not all at once.
C.S. Lewis said:
“ No amount of falls will really undo us if we keep on picking ourselves up each time. We shall of course be very muddy and tattered children by the time we reach home. But the bathrooms are all ready, the towels put out, and the clean clothes in the airing cupboard. The only fatal thing is to lose one’s temper and give it up.”
After watching Matthew’s quick recovery from his mischief and his willingness to walk toward the car with a cheerful attitude, I expect good things will yet come to him. He is young and will learn quickly enough about “how things are.”
For the time being, Katherine and I contented ourselves with changing Matthew’s bloated diaper, stripping off his soaked clothes, and thanking God for the extra dose of Indian summer.
As I pulled out of the parking lot and watched the Atlantic ocean fade in my rear-view mirror, I remembered an old story about a man who had an incredible encounter one night while walking on the ocean.
“One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord, (and)
many scenes from my life flashed across the sky," begins the account.
If you’ve ever taken a walk on the beach and looked for a certain set of “Footprints”, the rest of that story will be as familiar as the salty ocean breeze.
If you've never heard of the legend, just go to any Christian bookstore and tell the clerk that you would like to know more about walking on the beach alone with the Lord.
They'll know exactly what you mean.
As for me, a good stroll along the ocean always seems to clear the air, no matter what's going on in the world. There is a familiarity in the hiss of the pounding surf that is timeless. I guess no matter how many people we invite to walk with us on the sands of our lives, there is always one more set of footprints left in the shifting dunes than we thought would be there. Coming off of a Black Friday that was tainted with reports of robbery, greed, and violence, I was grateful for a well-timed reminder that life is still pretty simple if we leave our footprints in the right place....with the right people.
Whether we are being carried along the shoreline in the depths of our weakness or are walking along at a steady pace of our own design, we will all eventually come to the knowledge that there is no beach so far or ocean so remote that our footprints will go unnoticed by Him who created them. And if we are listening to the still small voice that travels along the current of the ocean breeze, we will also come to realize that regardless of whether we are broken, whole, or in-between, we are all "still pretty" in the eyes of the Master shell collector.
It is a day when sanity is restored and reason is reinstated after a twenty-four hour period of madness.
There are no sales. No deadlines. No hoopla.
Each year, our family drives six hours south to spend Thanksgiving at the beach with Katherine’s parents, and there is usually no question about what we will do with our extra time on lazy-days. We kick off our shoes, pack up the car, and head down to the ocean. Today, under the banner of a warm Indian summer sun, we made the short trek east across the inter-coastal waterway to greet the fall surf.
It was a good day for a walk.
Matthew, with his blue corduroys rolled up to his knees, ran uninhibited toward the receding tide with secret plans of hosting a one-man diving excursion while mom and dad weren’t looking. Kendall opted for quieter diversions, and split off to collect sea shells. After walking along the cool salt water with Katherine and Matthew for awhile, I decided to join Kendall on her search for the perfect conch.
“I don’t like collecting shells,” she mumbled as we walked along.
I was a little surprised by her statement, and asked her what had soured her on the prospect.
“I have to carry the cup,” she complained, glancing down at the plastic cup she was carrying as a temporary holding bin for her shells.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
Earlier, Kendall had done her best to push the responsibility of tending to the cup off on me. After absorbing the "no" she surely knew was coming, she went to work on Katherine, and finally, having no success, tried to connive her unsuspecting younger brother into taking over her cup duty so that she could walk along the beach unhindered. Charity was sparser than usual, and despite her best efforts, she was stuck with the cup.
We continued to walk and look for shells.
After awhile, I looked into the plastic cup and noticed that Kendall had collected some halfway-decent looking specimens.
Mingling with the unblemished shells were a few broken-off, faded out fragments that I couldn’t quite figure out.
“What’s with the broken shells?” I asked. “You’re only supposed to collect the ones that are whole.”
Kendall looked at the shells in question, temporarily forgot her ire about having to carry the cup, and made a case for keeping the fragments.
“Well...they're still pretty,” she said.
I shrugged and continued to walk. Meanwhile, Matthew had found water pooling in a large, shallow crater in the sand. The sun warmed the 6 -inch deep water to a pleasant balminess, enticing Matthew to take the plunge and go for full-body immersion.
“You missed a spot,” I yelled, noticing a small area on his shirt that was untouched by the water and wet sand.
Matthew looked up and continued his splashing, blissfully unaware and completely unconcerned with his sopping wet clothes and diaper.
I shook my head at his antics.
“Ignorance is bliss,” I thought to myself as I reflected on his generally care-free attitude toward life.
Later, as we walked back toward the car, I was struck with the simple wisdom that both of my children had unknowingly contributed to our afternoon walk.
Kendall, who had spent the afternoon mingling broken shells with those that were whole, was convinced that all of them were beautiful regardless of their condition.
Her choice of keepsakes brought to mind a verse from the New Testament:
“They that are whole have no need of the physician,” Jesus said, “but they that are sick: I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.
Jesus later reminded us that our heavenly Father is well-invested in the business of restoring things that are broken.
“I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance.”
As Jeffery R. Holland once said, God seems to take special note of “broken things to mend"; especially those that have been left lying helpless and stranded on the beaches of His creation. To be sure, if the Savior had been walking with Kendall today, He would have smiled when He looked inside of her plastic cup.
“They’re still pretty,” she said simply.
Well said.
Matthew on the other hand, fell headlong into the ocean and then plowed like a bull through ankle-deep water before we could get our hands on him to stop him. Blissfully unaware of the rules of civility and how things “should be,” he didn’t quite understand why his antics led to our walk on the ocean being terminated.
Soaked and covered with sand, he was quite ready to continue the festivities for as long as he was able.
Kind of reminds me of our own relationship with a perfect, all-knowing God.
Despite our best efforts, our feeble claims to personal righteousness (at least while being impaired by pride and self-will) are compared to “filthy rags” when illuminated by the perfect holiness of a just God. More often than we probably think, we go blundering through life, soaked and sandy, with no inkling that we have fallen into deep water and need to be dried off.
Yet God is merciful to us in our fallen condition.
He does not demand perfection of us....at least not all at once.
C.S. Lewis said:
“ No amount of falls will really undo us if we keep on picking ourselves up each time. We shall of course be very muddy and tattered children by the time we reach home. But the bathrooms are all ready, the towels put out, and the clean clothes in the airing cupboard. The only fatal thing is to lose one’s temper and give it up.”
After watching Matthew’s quick recovery from his mischief and his willingness to walk toward the car with a cheerful attitude, I expect good things will yet come to him. He is young and will learn quickly enough about “how things are.”
For the time being, Katherine and I contented ourselves with changing Matthew’s bloated diaper, stripping off his soaked clothes, and thanking God for the extra dose of Indian summer.
As I pulled out of the parking lot and watched the Atlantic ocean fade in my rear-view mirror, I remembered an old story about a man who had an incredible encounter one night while walking on the ocean.
“One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord, (and)
many scenes from my life flashed across the sky," begins the account.
If you’ve ever taken a walk on the beach and looked for a certain set of “Footprints”, the rest of that story will be as familiar as the salty ocean breeze.
If you've never heard of the legend, just go to any Christian bookstore and tell the clerk that you would like to know more about walking on the beach alone with the Lord.
They'll know exactly what you mean.
As for me, a good stroll along the ocean always seems to clear the air, no matter what's going on in the world. There is a familiarity in the hiss of the pounding surf that is timeless. I guess no matter how many people we invite to walk with us on the sands of our lives, there is always one more set of footprints left in the shifting dunes than we thought would be there. Coming off of a Black Friday that was tainted with reports of robbery, greed, and violence, I was grateful for a well-timed reminder that life is still pretty simple if we leave our footprints in the right place....with the right people.
Whether we are being carried along the shoreline in the depths of our weakness or are walking along at a steady pace of our own design, we will all eventually come to the knowledge that there is no beach so far or ocean so remote that our footprints will go unnoticed by Him who created them. And if we are listening to the still small voice that travels along the current of the ocean breeze, we will also come to realize that regardless of whether we are broken, whole, or in-between, we are all "still pretty" in the eyes of the Master shell collector.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Never Too Late for a Trade-In
Have you ever had car trouble?
Chances are, you have.
I have certainly done my share of walking down the sides of narrow roads and interstate emergency lanes, glancing back occasionally to see how far I have traveled from the hazard flashers blinking in the distance.
Not the best way to end a long day.
A few days ago, I was sitting at a stoplight and, for some reason, the thought occurred to me that we humans have an awful lot in common with the vehicles we drive. We spend so much of our time trying to keep ourselves in good repair. Yet, despite our best efforts to maintain a well-oiled machine, we too often find ourselves stranded inside a dingy auto-shop undergoing expensive repairs.
Sometimes, these occasional restorations to our inner make-up are in order.
Other times, we have to face the fact that we might be riding around in a kind of mental and spiritual lemon that will sap all of our strength and resources to fix. Lucky for us there is a dealer in town who will take free trade-ins on the spiritual lemons and money- pits that plague our happiness.
No kidding.
Just bring the vehicle in question (no matter what shape it is in) to the dealership parking lot and park it next to the other broken-down mental and spiritual wrecks sitting there in the junkyard.
Step out of the vehicle.
Give the keys to the friendly looking guy who comes out to greet you, and ride away smiling in a brand new car that runs like a top.
Sound too good to be true?
Well.....there is one catch.
This particular dealership has one stipulation that must be followed or the trade is void. When you drive away in your new vehicle, you must leave behind all of the baggage you have stowed away inside of the old car.
Baggage that should to be easy to walk away from... but isn’t.
The hidden suitcase in the trunk that is full of the anger you feel toward your boss.
That cleverly disguised box of self indulgence you have shoved under the front seat - the one you have been opening every once in awhile when you think no one is watching.
That bad habit you just can’t seem to give up.
The can of self pity.
The grudge you’ve been carrying around for the past twenty years.
Yes....all of that spiritual rubbish has to stay with the car or the deal is off.
Chances are, though, you’ll forget about your losses pretty quick when you notice that you don’t have to wonder whether you’ll get to your destinations without roadside assistance anymore. You’ll be thrilled when you can stop figuring costly auto repairs into your monthly budget. And no more praying that the car will start when you turn the ignition.
The upkeep on the new car is easy. Just keep up with the maintenance card, change the oil, and bring it in for a tune up every once in awhile.
And leave that treasure trove of old habits back with the wreck you traded in.
Sounds pretty simple, right?
When speaking of the kingdom of heaven, Jesus said:
And then, to make sure His followers understood, he related a similar parable:
Our all in exchange for Christ’s all.
Earth for heaven.
Sounds like a pretty good deal to me.
But are we willing to make the trade?
Sometimes, I fear we are more prone to go for the quick steal on a snazzy looking sports car that will speed us toward temporary fulfillment than for the plain-looking family car that will actually get us where we want to go. Contrary to what is paraded before us on our TV screens, it’s still true that slow and steady wins the race. Yet despite the seeming simplicity of it all, it’s easy to be deceived about where happiness lies in today’s world of mass- marketing and multi-media. It’s easy to find ourselves riding around in a spiritual lemon even after the closest scrutiny of the available options.
Fortunately for us, there’s that almost-too-good-to-be-true dealership that’s set up just at the edge of town.
And He’s still taking trade ins.
Always has...always will.
Sometimes it can be hard getting our ragged-out, broken-down lemons to the junk yard to make the trade.
We might even have to get out and walk the last leg of the journey, checking back in the distance to see how far we have come from the flashing hazard lights. Repentance can be a long road to follow.
In the distance, the sign that is and ever will be visible as a light to those stranded and in need of a ride reads:
So, if your car has been acting up and all of the self-help mechanics have failed you, do yourself a favor: throw in the towel and take your spiritual lemon out to the edge of town. It’s never as far away as it seems to be...even if your walking away from the mangles remains of what seems to be a total-loss.Those hazard lights can look awful lonely as you look back to the scene of the accident and keep trudging along (Believe me, I know all about that!).
Don’t despair.
In the distance, there is a set of headlights headed down the deserted road toward you. As they near your position on the road, they slow to a crawl. The loud but pleasant clanking of a diesel engine drowns out the crickets in the night air, and you notice that you are staring into the side-window of an old tow-truck.
"Need a lift?" calls a voice from the driver’s seat.
You hesitate for a moment, but there is something about the voice that seems compelling.
Something familiar.
"You betcha!" you hear yourself saying, swinging open the door.
As the driver hitches up your car and heads back out toward the edge of town, you smile at the golden emblem on the passenger-side door.
"Treasure in a Field Towing," it says. "Great Price."
The lights fade in the distance, and the heavens are silent as the crickets resume their chirping. In a celestial realm somewhere out there in the cosmos, a heavenly being clothed in brilliant light smiles at the scene. The tow truck makes it’s way slowly toward the edge of town, and turns into a small dealership that has a great deal on new cars.
Looks like it’s never too late for a trade-in.
Chances are, you have.
I have certainly done my share of walking down the sides of narrow roads and interstate emergency lanes, glancing back occasionally to see how far I have traveled from the hazard flashers blinking in the distance.
Not the best way to end a long day.
A few days ago, I was sitting at a stoplight and, for some reason, the thought occurred to me that we humans have an awful lot in common with the vehicles we drive. We spend so much of our time trying to keep ourselves in good repair. Yet, despite our best efforts to maintain a well-oiled machine, we too often find ourselves stranded inside a dingy auto-shop undergoing expensive repairs.
Sometimes, these occasional restorations to our inner make-up are in order.
Other times, we have to face the fact that we might be riding around in a kind of mental and spiritual lemon that will sap all of our strength and resources to fix. Lucky for us there is a dealer in town who will take free trade-ins on the spiritual lemons and money- pits that plague our happiness.
No kidding.
Just bring the vehicle in question (no matter what shape it is in) to the dealership parking lot and park it next to the other broken-down mental and spiritual wrecks sitting there in the junkyard.
Step out of the vehicle.
Give the keys to the friendly looking guy who comes out to greet you, and ride away smiling in a brand new car that runs like a top.
Sound too good to be true?
Well.....there is one catch.
This particular dealership has one stipulation that must be followed or the trade is void. When you drive away in your new vehicle, you must leave behind all of the baggage you have stowed away inside of the old car.
Baggage that should to be easy to walk away from... but isn’t.
The hidden suitcase in the trunk that is full of the anger you feel toward your boss.
That cleverly disguised box of self indulgence you have shoved under the front seat - the one you have been opening every once in awhile when you think no one is watching.
That bad habit you just can’t seem to give up.
The can of self pity.
The grudge you’ve been carrying around for the past twenty years.
Yes....all of that spiritual rubbish has to stay with the car or the deal is off.
Chances are, though, you’ll forget about your losses pretty quick when you notice that you don’t have to wonder whether you’ll get to your destinations without roadside assistance anymore. You’ll be thrilled when you can stop figuring costly auto repairs into your monthly budget. And no more praying that the car will start when you turn the ignition.
The upkeep on the new car is easy. Just keep up with the maintenance card, change the oil, and bring it in for a tune up every once in awhile.
And leave that treasure trove of old habits back with the wreck you traded in.
Sounds pretty simple, right?
When speaking of the kingdom of heaven, Jesus said:
"Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto treasure hid in a field; the which when a man hath found, he hideth, and for joy thereof goeth and selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field."
And then, to make sure His followers understood, he related a similar parable:
"Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchantman, seeking goodly pearls:Not a bad trade-in if you think about it.
who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had, and bought it."
Our all in exchange for Christ’s all.
Earth for heaven.
Sounds like a pretty good deal to me.
But are we willing to make the trade?
Sometimes, I fear we are more prone to go for the quick steal on a snazzy looking sports car that will speed us toward temporary fulfillment than for the plain-looking family car that will actually get us where we want to go. Contrary to what is paraded before us on our TV screens, it’s still true that slow and steady wins the race. Yet despite the seeming simplicity of it all, it’s easy to be deceived about where happiness lies in today’s world of mass- marketing and multi-media. It’s easy to find ourselves riding around in a spiritual lemon even after the closest scrutiny of the available options.
Fortunately for us, there’s that almost-too-good-to-be-true dealership that’s set up just at the edge of town.
And He’s still taking trade ins.
Always has...always will.
Sometimes it can be hard getting our ragged-out, broken-down lemons to the junk yard to make the trade.
We might even have to get out and walk the last leg of the journey, checking back in the distance to see how far we have come from the flashing hazard lights. Repentance can be a long road to follow.
In the distance, the sign that is and ever will be visible as a light to those stranded and in need of a ride reads:
"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.To the tired traveler who is weary of detours and breakdowns, there can be no sweeter words to ponder.
Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light"
So, if your car has been acting up and all of the self-help mechanics have failed you, do yourself a favor: throw in the towel and take your spiritual lemon out to the edge of town. It’s never as far away as it seems to be...even if your walking away from the mangles remains of what seems to be a total-loss.Those hazard lights can look awful lonely as you look back to the scene of the accident and keep trudging along (Believe me, I know all about that!).
Don’t despair.
In the distance, there is a set of headlights headed down the deserted road toward you. As they near your position on the road, they slow to a crawl. The loud but pleasant clanking of a diesel engine drowns out the crickets in the night air, and you notice that you are staring into the side-window of an old tow-truck.
"Need a lift?" calls a voice from the driver’s seat.
You hesitate for a moment, but there is something about the voice that seems compelling.
Something familiar.
"You betcha!" you hear yourself saying, swinging open the door.
As the driver hitches up your car and heads back out toward the edge of town, you smile at the golden emblem on the passenger-side door.
"Treasure in a Field Towing," it says. "Great Price."
The lights fade in the distance, and the heavens are silent as the crickets resume their chirping. In a celestial realm somewhere out there in the cosmos, a heavenly being clothed in brilliant light smiles at the scene. The tow truck makes it’s way slowly toward the edge of town, and turns into a small dealership that has a great deal on new cars.
Looks like it’s never too late for a trade-in.
The Breath of Life
Recently, when I was on a flight to New York City, an unexpected experience helped me understand a little better about how we might be more effective in our efforts to bless the lives of those around us.
The insight came when the airline stewardess was explaining the nature of the emergency air bag that would drop down if the aircraft became unstable and started to depressurize. While listening to her instructions, I looked down at the written list of safety procedures, and started when my gaze fell on one particular diagram.
In this picture and the subsequent written explanation, adult airline passengers were instructed that in the event of an aircraft emergency, they were to first make sure that their own air masks were securely in place. Then, only after doing this, they could proceed to concern themselves with strapping on the air masks of their children.
Though the apparent wisdom in the instructions was evident, the whole process seemed to fly in the face of everything I understood about what it means to be a good parent.
In the event of such an urgent emergency, wouldn’t it be unforgivably selfish to spend valuable time putting on your own air mask before worrying about that of your children?
It would certainly seem so.
When you think about the how the laws of nature really work, though, the answer may be ....well....maybe it’s not so selfish.
You see, if the adult were to lose consciousness as a result of air loss, he or she would be totally useless to anyone else (including their children) while lying in a heap on the floor of the careening aircraft.
No one would be there to help the children, and it’s doubtful they would be able to figure out how to help themselves.
But if they were able to get your mask quickly on their face, thus taking care of their own need for oxygen, they would be much better equipped and empowered to help their own children to safety.
In the book of Enos, (found near the beginning of the Book of Mormon), this principle is illustrated wonderfully:
The Lamanites were at enmity with Enos and his Nephite brothers.
Enos first applied all of his energy to getting his life on course, and then, after having his own spiritual oxygen replenished, he was able to divert his full, undistracted attention towards heartfelt prayer for both his friends and his enemies.
Here in this book, I believe an eternal pattern is established:
Rather, it is a daily, even hourly process of keeping a prayer in our hearts so that we are strengthened and healed according to our needs.
So, if you are finding yourself more and more tired, frazzled, and worn out by the vicissitudes of life, don’t despair.
There are oxygen masks available at all hours of the day and night, no matter what aircraft you are traveling on.
You will probably find yours most easily if you take respite in a quiet room in the back of the house and calm your mind long enough to say a quick prayer.
Your husband can survive without dinner for a few minutes.
Your wife can hold onto that list of chores for another couple of moments.
The kids will be ok for a few seconds.
How much damage could they actually do in that time frame? (Don’t answer that.)
When you reemerge, you will be much more able to help those in your care than you were a few moments ago when you were struggling for spiritual air.
Jesus has admonished: "Ask, and you shall receive. Knock, and it shall be opened,"
Prayer will do wonders for the oxygen deprived soul.
A half-hour immersed in a favorite hymn or verse first thing in the morning can be all of the spiritual oxygen you will need to stand up to the challenges of the day.
"I will not leave you comfortless," said Jesus to His disciples. "I will come to you."
Over the course of my life, I have really come to believe that.
I can’t count how many times the Spirit has come to my rescue in overcoming temptations, finding the courage to stand for what is right, or helping me control my temper in a heated moment.
His influence to us in this day and age is just as it was to Adam and Eve thousands of years ago in the Garden of Eden:
The breath of life.
I’m not sure about you, but I don't need to be traveling at 30,000 feet to appreciate the how much better my day goes with a breath of fresh air.
The insight came when the airline stewardess was explaining the nature of the emergency air bag that would drop down if the aircraft became unstable and started to depressurize. While listening to her instructions, I looked down at the written list of safety procedures, and started when my gaze fell on one particular diagram.
In this picture and the subsequent written explanation, adult airline passengers were instructed that in the event of an aircraft emergency, they were to first make sure that their own air masks were securely in place. Then, only after doing this, they could proceed to concern themselves with strapping on the air masks of their children.
Though the apparent wisdom in the instructions was evident, the whole process seemed to fly in the face of everything I understood about what it means to be a good parent.
In the event of such an urgent emergency, wouldn’t it be unforgivably selfish to spend valuable time putting on your own air mask before worrying about that of your children?
It would certainly seem so.
When you think about the how the laws of nature really work, though, the answer may be ....well....maybe it’s not so selfish.
You see, if the adult were to lose consciousness as a result of air loss, he or she would be totally useless to anyone else (including their children) while lying in a heap on the floor of the careening aircraft.
No one would be there to help the children, and it’s doubtful they would be able to figure out how to help themselves.
But if they were able to get your mask quickly on their face, thus taking care of their own need for oxygen, they would be much better equipped and empowered to help their own children to safety.
In the book of Enos, (found near the beginning of the Book of Mormon), this principle is illustrated wonderfully:
"Behold, it came to pass that I, Enos, knowing my father that he was a just man -- for he taught me in his language, and also in the nurture and admonition of the Lord -- and blessed be the name of my God for it --Enos, through faith in Jesus Christ, received peace to his soul and a remission of sins because of his faith and diligence in seeking Jesus Christ. Many of us might think the story ends here, but there is more:
And I will tell you of the wrestle which I had before God, before I received a remission of my sins.
Behold, I went to hunt beasts in the forests; and the words which I had often heard my father speak concerning eternal life, and the joy of the saints, sunk deep into my heart.
And my soul hungered; and I kneeled down before my Maker, and I cried unto him in mighty prayer and supplication for mine own soul; and all the day long did I cry unto him; yea, and when the night came I did still raise my voice high that it reached the heavens.
And there came a voice unto me, saying: Enos, thy sins are forgiven thee, and thou shalt be blessed.
And I, Enos, knew that God could not lie; wherefore, my guilt was swept away.
And I said: Lord, how is it done?
And he said unto me: Because of thy faith in Christ, whom thou hast never before heard nor seen. And many years pass away before he shall manifest himself in the flesh; wherefore, go to, thy faith hath made thee whole."
Now, it came to pass that when I had heard these words I began to feel a desire for the welfare of my brethren, the Nephites; wherefore, I did pour out my whole soul unto God for them.For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Book of Mormon, the Nephites were Enos’ kindred.
And while I was thus struggling in the spirit, behold, the voice of the Lord came into my mind again, saying: I will visit thy brethren according to their diligence in keeping my commandments. I have given unto them this land, and it is a holy land; and I curse it not save it be for the cause of iniquity; wherefore, I will visit thy brethren according as I have said; and their transgressions will I bring down with sorrow upon their own heads.And after I, Enos, had heard these words, my faith began to be unshaken in the Lord; and I prayed unto him with many long strugglings for my brethren, the Lamanites."
The Lamanites were at enmity with Enos and his Nephite brothers.
Enos first applied all of his energy to getting his life on course, and then, after having his own spiritual oxygen replenished, he was able to divert his full, undistracted attention towards heartfelt prayer for both his friends and his enemies.
Here in this book, I believe an eternal pattern is established:
- Life brings challenges to all of us
- We feel a need for spiritual help in our lives to help us meet these challenges
- We approach God in fervent and heartfelt prayer
- God sends us spiritual oxygen to meet our needs
- We are then in a position to do as the Savior would have us do - lose ourselves in the service of providing spiritual oxygen for others
Rather, it is a daily, even hourly process of keeping a prayer in our hearts so that we are strengthened and healed according to our needs.
So, if you are finding yourself more and more tired, frazzled, and worn out by the vicissitudes of life, don’t despair.
There are oxygen masks available at all hours of the day and night, no matter what aircraft you are traveling on.
You will probably find yours most easily if you take respite in a quiet room in the back of the house and calm your mind long enough to say a quick prayer.
Your husband can survive without dinner for a few minutes.
Your wife can hold onto that list of chores for another couple of moments.
The kids will be ok for a few seconds.
How much damage could they actually do in that time frame? (Don’t answer that.)
When you reemerge, you will be much more able to help those in your care than you were a few moments ago when you were struggling for spiritual air.
Jesus has admonished: "Ask, and you shall receive. Knock, and it shall be opened,"
Prayer will do wonders for the oxygen deprived soul.
A half-hour immersed in a favorite hymn or verse first thing in the morning can be all of the spiritual oxygen you will need to stand up to the challenges of the day.
"I will not leave you comfortless," said Jesus to His disciples. "I will come to you."
Over the course of my life, I have really come to believe that.
I can’t count how many times the Spirit has come to my rescue in overcoming temptations, finding the courage to stand for what is right, or helping me control my temper in a heated moment.
His influence to us in this day and age is just as it was to Adam and Eve thousands of years ago in the Garden of Eden:
The breath of life.
I’m not sure about you, but I don't need to be traveling at 30,000 feet to appreciate the how much better my day goes with a breath of fresh air.
Choose the Right
Last week, after getting off from my first job, I spent a couple of hours doing a pest service on a self-storage unit here in Williamsburg.While I was wandering through the rows of indoor units (sprayer in hand), I reflected on how difficult it can sometimes be to remember which areas have been serviced and which ones still need to be treated….especially if you are in a really big building.
Maybe it’s my old age catching up with me, but my memory just isn’t what it used to be. The bigger the building, the harder it seems to be to remember where you are …and where you have been.
I have definitely serviced a few large buildings in my time.
I can remember attempting to tackle a Goliath meat-packing plant on my first day as a pest control technician back in 1996.It didn’t work out so well – I wandered around lost inside for hours. After what seemed like forever, I found my way out of the maze of locker rooms, hallways and production rooms and breathed a sigh of relief as I felt the cool air outside. Looking at the lay of the building from the outside and reworking my bearings, I was shocked at how far I was from where I thought I would be.
I was way off course!
Back then, I didn’t know the secret to remembering which way to turn next when navigating a big building without a map to point the way out.Somewhere along the way, I realized that no matter what building you are in, regardless of the size or the complexity of the layout, you can find your way out (as well as remember what you have treated and what you haven’t) if you start making right-hand turns the minute you enter the building. Then, if you keep the wall to your right at all times, you will be able to successfully navigate the building.
Sounds pretty simple, huh?
Just walk in, make a right-hand turn, make sure the wall stays to your right, and keep doing the same until you get out. The problem with this system is exactly what it seems like it would be – it’s too simple. Most days, there is a significant temptation to deviate.
Most days, unfortunately, I do.
I have found no success, however, in deviating from this system of right-hand turns. Rather, such deviations almost always mean having to redo a section or two.Or, worse yet, wandering around lost for awhile.
As I finished up the other day with the last row of the middle units at the self-storage facility and prepared to treat the final round of perimeter doorways, I reflected on the wisdom of trying to stick with right-hand turns, and wondered if the philosophy behind it might have greater value than just navigating pest-guys through buildings.While pondering this thought, I happened to notice a couple of units in a corner to the left that hadn’t been treated yet. I thought about making a quick detour and veering off that way for a minute or two to spray them. It wouldn’t take but a second, and I’d be right back on course making right-hand turns. It would be a piece of cake to find my way back.
Then I smiled as I remembered the words to a familiar children’s hymn.
With one last glance over my shoulder, I turned my back on the left-facing units and continued on my way down the long corridor. Soon enough, I made my way back around and was treating the units in question. This time, there were no doubts about whether or not I had treated the area before.No wandering around trying to get back on track.
“Choose the right.”
It’s pretty simple.
Sounds like good advice for a pest guy.
My memory isn’t what it used to be, but I don’t think I”ve ever gone wrong choosing right.
I have definitely serviced a few large buildings in my time.
I can remember attempting to tackle a Goliath meat-packing plant on my first day as a pest control technician back in 1996.It didn’t work out so well – I wandered around lost inside for hours. After what seemed like forever, I found my way out of the maze of locker rooms, hallways and production rooms and breathed a sigh of relief as I felt the cool air outside. Looking at the lay of the building from the outside and reworking my bearings, I was shocked at how far I was from where I thought I would be.
I was way off course!
Back then, I didn’t know the secret to remembering which way to turn next when navigating a big building without a map to point the way out.Somewhere along the way, I realized that no matter what building you are in, regardless of the size or the complexity of the layout, you can find your way out (as well as remember what you have treated and what you haven’t) if you start making right-hand turns the minute you enter the building. Then, if you keep the wall to your right at all times, you will be able to successfully navigate the building.
Sounds pretty simple, huh?
Just walk in, make a right-hand turn, make sure the wall stays to your right, and keep doing the same until you get out. The problem with this system is exactly what it seems like it would be – it’s too simple. Most days, there is a significant temptation to deviate.
Most days, unfortunately, I do.
I have found no success, however, in deviating from this system of right-hand turns. Rather, such deviations almost always mean having to redo a section or two.Or, worse yet, wandering around lost for awhile.
As I finished up the other day with the last row of the middle units at the self-storage facility and prepared to treat the final round of perimeter doorways, I reflected on the wisdom of trying to stick with right-hand turns, and wondered if the philosophy behind it might have greater value than just navigating pest-guys through buildings.While pondering this thought, I happened to notice a couple of units in a corner to the left that hadn’t been treated yet. I thought about making a quick detour and veering off that way for a minute or two to spray them. It wouldn’t take but a second, and I’d be right back on course making right-hand turns. It would be a piece of cake to find my way back.
Then I smiled as I remembered the words to a familiar children’s hymn.
“Choose the right, when the choice is put before you,
In the right the Holy Spirit guides;
And its light is forever shining o’er you,
When in the right your heart confides.
Choose the right, Choose the right
Let wisdom mark the way before.
In its light, choose the right
And God will bless you evermore.”
With one last glance over my shoulder, I turned my back on the left-facing units and continued on my way down the long corridor. Soon enough, I made my way back around and was treating the units in question. This time, there were no doubts about whether or not I had treated the area before.No wandering around trying to get back on track.
“Choose the right.”
It’s pretty simple.
Sounds like good advice for a pest guy.
My memory isn’t what it used to be, but I don’t think I”ve ever gone wrong choosing right.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Don't Forget the Butter
This morning, I woke up to the crisp fall weather and, despite the heavy cloud cover, was in good spirits as I contemplated the day ahead.
Having sat through a couple of inspiring General Conference sessions yesterday afternoon, I looked forward to hearing the messages on the final two segments in front of my Mom’s wide-screen TV.
As I meandered downstairs into the kitchen, I rubbed my eyes and tried to push the cobwebs out of my mind. My son, Matthew, was already awake and sitting in front of the TV. He usually wakes up pretty hungry, so I reached into the freezer for the frozen pancakes he eats almost every morning for breakfast. As I plopped them in the toaster, I thought of the many things that had to be done before we headed over to Mom's.
To begin with, Katherine and I had agreed to bring a southwest salad to contribute to dinner, so that would have to be put together.
We needed to straighten up the living room and make the beds.
Showers needed to be taken.
I looked at the clock.
Distractedly, I put the pancakes on the plate.
Then I opened the fridge to find in the butter, and, glancing again at the clock, decided to skip that part and go straight for the syrup to save time.
As I did so, a quiet but distinct impression came into my mind.
"These are the moments when it really counts."
I stopped in my tracks and looked back at the butter nestled comfortably in its place on the second shelf. Even though Matthew would probably never be able to tell the difference between pancakes with butter or without, I realized that this small moment of attention to details might matter anyway.
I would know the difference.
I reached for the butter.
It only took up an extra second or two.
Next, I headed for the garlic salt.
A member of my family was cooking the soup for us to eat during the intermission between conference sessions and had asked if I would bring some garlic salt with me when I came.
In our house, we always have a large supply of garlic.
On one shelf, there was the cheap garlic that I got at the dollar store - I used it for emergencies just like this.
On top of the stove was the good stuff....a perfect mixture of salt, garlic, and parsley that I loved using in my spaghetti sauce and garlic bread.
I reached for the cheap stuff.
Another soft impression.
"You should always give the best of yourself to others."
I almost laughed out loud as my hand stopped in mid air.
Was I going crazy?
It’s been known to happen.
Yet, I could feel a taste of that warm comforting presence I have come to know and love over the years.
I reached for the good stuff, set it next to the pile of things we would be taking with us, and went about my business.
The butter and the garlic somehow brought to mind a conversation I had been involved in a few years back.While explaining some of the principles of my faith to another person one, I was asked what it meant to be "worthy".
I had thought about the question for a moment and said,
"It means to be right with God."
At the time, I thought that I had given a complete answer. After thinking about it again this morning, though, I wondered if there was more to it than that.
To be sure, being right with God is the most important thing we can focus on.
We can never be right with God on our own, but with the help of the Savior, it’s possible.
Even likely.
But I think the other half of the equation is that we also have to make sure we are "right" with ourselves.
Looking back at the pancakes and garlic salt (maybe not such a great combination), I realized that there was a lesson to be learned in my kitchen this morning despite my busyness.
It had to do with our search for inner peace and happiness.
I think we are most peaceful and happy when we know we have done our best.
Yet, despite all of our striving and efforts to do right by others, it’s a definite fact that the outcome of our "best" is different every day.
Some days, everything goes right and our best efforts seems to shine like the sun.
On other days, our efforts seem like they have been stampeded in the mud of opposition - stained and pathetically inadequate.
Yet I am reminded that while "man looketh on the outward appearance, God looketh on the heart."
The currency in heaven seems to be a lot more centered on the desires of our hearts and our earnest efforts to make our world a brighter place than on the actual results of those intentions and efforts.
There are two people who always know if we are serving the best of ourselves to those we are called to minister to.
God.
And us.
Those are the two people who will always know the complete, unabridged truth of our lives.
As I went about the rest of my morning preparations, I wondered if I was being a little ridiculous in trying to imagine that God would care whether or not my son had butter on his pancakes this morning for breakfast.
After all, he has billions of other spirit children to tend to....many of which have worse problems than unbuttered breakfast foods.
Yet, I believe God knows that life is a "game of inches", and that every inch we move forward toward light and love matters greatly in the grand scheme of things.
"For by small and simple means are great things brought to pass."
I think that our commitment to doing our best might be the only thing that really does matter.
Then, when we have done everything we can do, we lay it all at Jesus’ feet and walk away with a smile.
Sort of reminds me of a certain Drummer Boy we sing about come Christmas-time.
He didn’t have a wealth of gold or a caravan of fancy spices to offer to the babe lying in the manger.
He just had his drum to beat on.
So he played his best for him.
And it was enough.
How about you?
If you are just waking up and preparing to face another day, try giving yourself a shot of spiritual vitamin C this morning by taking the extra second or two to give the best of yourself to those who need your help.
You may be a shoulder to cry on or a lifeline to someone in trouble.
You may be a helping hand to a crying child or a word of comfort for someone who is suffering.
You might be a friend to the neighbor across the street.
You may even do something as insignificant as buttering a pancake for a two-year old who probably won’t notice the difference.
Whatever it is that you do, give it your best shot.
You won’t be sorry....in fact, you might just feel a ray or two of "hope shining brightly before you" as you go about your business.
You might even feel the same smile of acceptance that a poor drummer boy felt a couple thousand years ago.
"Pa Rumpa Pum Pum," he said as he walked out into the night under the light of an unusually bright star.
That was always one of my favorite songs when I was little, but I don't think we'll hear it during conference today
If not, I’ll let it slide and be grateful for another day of inspired spiritual guidance.
When it comes time for intermission and we sit down for lunch, I’m sure I’ll end up peeking into the fridge to get some salad dressing or mayonnaise to set on the table.
When I do, I’ll probably look down to the second shelf and smile as I remember a simple but profound lesson I learned on conference Sunday:
"Don’t forget the butter."
Having sat through a couple of inspiring General Conference sessions yesterday afternoon, I looked forward to hearing the messages on the final two segments in front of my Mom’s wide-screen TV.
As I meandered downstairs into the kitchen, I rubbed my eyes and tried to push the cobwebs out of my mind. My son, Matthew, was already awake and sitting in front of the TV. He usually wakes up pretty hungry, so I reached into the freezer for the frozen pancakes he eats almost every morning for breakfast. As I plopped them in the toaster, I thought of the many things that had to be done before we headed over to Mom's.
To begin with, Katherine and I had agreed to bring a southwest salad to contribute to dinner, so that would have to be put together.
We needed to straighten up the living room and make the beds.
Showers needed to be taken.
I looked at the clock.
Distractedly, I put the pancakes on the plate.
Then I opened the fridge to find in the butter, and, glancing again at the clock, decided to skip that part and go straight for the syrup to save time.
As I did so, a quiet but distinct impression came into my mind.
"These are the moments when it really counts."
I stopped in my tracks and looked back at the butter nestled comfortably in its place on the second shelf. Even though Matthew would probably never be able to tell the difference between pancakes with butter or without, I realized that this small moment of attention to details might matter anyway.
I would know the difference.
I reached for the butter.
It only took up an extra second or two.
Next, I headed for the garlic salt.
A member of my family was cooking the soup for us to eat during the intermission between conference sessions and had asked if I would bring some garlic salt with me when I came.
In our house, we always have a large supply of garlic.
On one shelf, there was the cheap garlic that I got at the dollar store - I used it for emergencies just like this.
On top of the stove was the good stuff....a perfect mixture of salt, garlic, and parsley that I loved using in my spaghetti sauce and garlic bread.
I reached for the cheap stuff.
Another soft impression.
"You should always give the best of yourself to others."
I almost laughed out loud as my hand stopped in mid air.
Was I going crazy?
It’s been known to happen.
Yet, I could feel a taste of that warm comforting presence I have come to know and love over the years.
I reached for the good stuff, set it next to the pile of things we would be taking with us, and went about my business.
The butter and the garlic somehow brought to mind a conversation I had been involved in a few years back.While explaining some of the principles of my faith to another person one, I was asked what it meant to be "worthy".
I had thought about the question for a moment and said,
"It means to be right with God."
At the time, I thought that I had given a complete answer. After thinking about it again this morning, though, I wondered if there was more to it than that.
To be sure, being right with God is the most important thing we can focus on.
We can never be right with God on our own, but with the help of the Savior, it’s possible.
Even likely.
But I think the other half of the equation is that we also have to make sure we are "right" with ourselves.
Looking back at the pancakes and garlic salt (maybe not such a great combination), I realized that there was a lesson to be learned in my kitchen this morning despite my busyness.
It had to do with our search for inner peace and happiness.
I think we are most peaceful and happy when we know we have done our best.
Yet, despite all of our striving and efforts to do right by others, it’s a definite fact that the outcome of our "best" is different every day.
Some days, everything goes right and our best efforts seems to shine like the sun.
On other days, our efforts seem like they have been stampeded in the mud of opposition - stained and pathetically inadequate.
Yet I am reminded that while "man looketh on the outward appearance, God looketh on the heart."
The currency in heaven seems to be a lot more centered on the desires of our hearts and our earnest efforts to make our world a brighter place than on the actual results of those intentions and efforts.
There are two people who always know if we are serving the best of ourselves to those we are called to minister to.
God.
And us.
Those are the two people who will always know the complete, unabridged truth of our lives.
As I went about the rest of my morning preparations, I wondered if I was being a little ridiculous in trying to imagine that God would care whether or not my son had butter on his pancakes this morning for breakfast.
After all, he has billions of other spirit children to tend to....many of which have worse problems than unbuttered breakfast foods.
Yet, I believe God knows that life is a "game of inches", and that every inch we move forward toward light and love matters greatly in the grand scheme of things.
"For by small and simple means are great things brought to pass."
I think that our commitment to doing our best might be the only thing that really does matter.
Then, when we have done everything we can do, we lay it all at Jesus’ feet and walk away with a smile.
Sort of reminds me of a certain Drummer Boy we sing about come Christmas-time.
He didn’t have a wealth of gold or a caravan of fancy spices to offer to the babe lying in the manger.
He just had his drum to beat on.
So he played his best for him.
And it was enough.
How about you?
If you are just waking up and preparing to face another day, try giving yourself a shot of spiritual vitamin C this morning by taking the extra second or two to give the best of yourself to those who need your help.
You may be a shoulder to cry on or a lifeline to someone in trouble.
You may be a helping hand to a crying child or a word of comfort for someone who is suffering.
You might be a friend to the neighbor across the street.
You may even do something as insignificant as buttering a pancake for a two-year old who probably won’t notice the difference.
Whatever it is that you do, give it your best shot.
You won’t be sorry....in fact, you might just feel a ray or two of "hope shining brightly before you" as you go about your business.
You might even feel the same smile of acceptance that a poor drummer boy felt a couple thousand years ago.
"Pa Rumpa Pum Pum," he said as he walked out into the night under the light of an unusually bright star.
That was always one of my favorite songs when I was little, but I don't think we'll hear it during conference today
If not, I’ll let it slide and be grateful for another day of inspired spiritual guidance.
When it comes time for intermission and we sit down for lunch, I’m sure I’ll end up peeking into the fridge to get some salad dressing or mayonnaise to set on the table.
When I do, I’ll probably look down to the second shelf and smile as I remember a simple but profound lesson I learned on conference Sunday:
"Don’t forget the butter."
Sunday, September 11, 2011
9-11
I was working on Monticello Avenue with a paving crew when the news reports began pouring in. My first thought, ironically, was to get into my truck and rush home to my family.
Ten years later, I realize that the scope and magnitude of this event are still far beyond my ability to comprehend. For whatever good that came out of this tragedy, there was immeasurable suffering, grief, and heartache that will not likely be totally healed in this life. Optimism fails me as I watch the terror unfold again, and I am reminded of the words spoken by Bagger Vance in the movie by the same name:
“It was only a moment ago.”
Today, I pray for peace and healing to come on the anniversary of this tragedy – both for those left behind and those on the other side of the veil. We will perhaps never make sense of such horror, but perhaps, with the help of the Almighty, we can learn to make peace with it. I pray for His help as we continue to carry this awful burden, and that we as individuals will find ways to make sure that no one who perished that awful morning did so in vain.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xDh_pvv1tUM
Ten years later, I realize that the scope and magnitude of this event are still far beyond my ability to comprehend. For whatever good that came out of this tragedy, there was immeasurable suffering, grief, and heartache that will not likely be totally healed in this life. Optimism fails me as I watch the terror unfold again, and I am reminded of the words spoken by Bagger Vance in the movie by the same name:
“It was only a moment ago.”
Today, I pray for peace and healing to come on the anniversary of this tragedy – both for those left behind and those on the other side of the veil. We will perhaps never make sense of such horror, but perhaps, with the help of the Almighty, we can learn to make peace with it. I pray for His help as we continue to carry this awful burden, and that we as individuals will find ways to make sure that no one who perished that awful morning did so in vain.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xDh_pvv1tUM
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Always Pave Up
Every now and then, I look back over the different jobs I have held and decide that I miss working with my hands.
In such moments, I like to remember my years working in the road construction industry. When Katherine and I were first starting out, I went to work for an asphalt paving contractor as a laborer. When I started the job, I had very little experience in asphalt paving, but soon picked up a keen interest in learning the different job stations. Although the work was hot, tiring, and mentally challenging, I came home with a great sense of satisfaction and accomplishment I have found hard to duplicate in other job fields.
It didn’t take me long to learn that, when it comes to paving, you didn’t want to be stuck working in a parking lot. Rather, you wanted to be paving a long, straight road where you could set the screed, put the paver in high gear, and (as they used to say on the crew), “let ‘er ride”.
Pulling on main roads involved very little physical or mental effort.
On the other hand, parking lots were a headache of epic proportions. Drainage was a challenge, the paver was constantly having to pick up and set down in tight areas, and there was a slew of “hand work” to be done, which translated into shoveling and raking piles of steaming asphalt where the paver couldn’t fit.
If you worked on a paving crew, you did what you could to avoid having to face such an ordeal.
Like it or not, though, our crew ended up working its share of parking lots.
Like any unpleasant task, we got used to the tedious labor and tried not to complain too much if we drew the shortest straw and worked for a few days in tight quarters.
One day, our proverbial number had come up and we were pushing our way through a large parking lot somewhere in Newport News. That particular morning, I happened to be standing near the foreman as he directed the paver to the low side of the lot to begin paving.
I looked at the operation he had set up and wondered why he was paving the lot in this particular manner.
To my thinking, it would have made more sense to do it another way.
When I asked him about it, he told me something that I have always remembered since:
“You should always pave from the low side up,” he said.
I asked him why.
“It helps keep the ”V’s” out of the parking lot,” he said.
You should know that “V’s” in a parking lot are an absolute taboo for a paving contractor. Unless the V is there by design (in which case it is called a “swale”), the defect in the asphalt topping will trap water and prevent it from draining. When it rains, the V’s in a parking lot are readily noticeable because there is standing water left on the surface. Since water is known to erode asphalt over time, the “lakes” and “puddles” that are left after a storm will diminish the life of the parking lot. Soon, the asphalt will degrade and crack into pieces, causing a need for expensive and unsightly patches.
Such drainage problems can actually cause a parking lot to fail inspection, with the general contractor refusing to pay for the parking lot until corrections are made.
My foreman’s rule of thumb in starting operations at the low side of the parking lot proved to be wise.
“When you’re paving up,” he explained, ”it’s much easier to spot the V’s. If you do happen to spot a V in the asphalt, you can stop and have a quick redo while the asphalt is still hot. On the other hand, when you start at the top and pave down, you often get to the last pull where you are tying in to the gutter and discover too late that you have a V in the asphalt. By that time, there’s not much you can do because the asphalt has been rolled and is cool.”
After that morning’s conversation with the foreman about V’s, I began observing the asphalt to test his theory.
I found that what he was saying was true.
For whatever reason, looking up across the parking lot while paving made V’s much easier to spot. Over the years, I worked with other foreman who decided not abide by this rule, and found out the hard way that paving from the top down could sometimes lead to disaster.
As I have remembered my escapades in asphalt paving lately, I have thought often about this tailgate wisdom in always “paving up”.
Perhaps there is a bit of practical inspiration in there that transcends asphalt paving operations.
“Paving up” may have implications for each of us.
Whether we are breezing along on a mainline section of road, or are stuck in a parking lot looking for the dreaded V’s, or maybe even struggling along the road of life just trying to make it through another day, there is something that is soothing about focusing our eyes upward.
Not only are we able to more easily spot and deal with the occasional V’s in our lives, we are also able to fix our minds resolutely on where we are going, which tends to lend even the most mundane and exasperating days a sense of meaning and purpose.
With each pass we make across our parking lot, we get closer and closer to the top.
We know that when we get there, we will be able to look back down over our work and see a functionally beautiful work of art. We will also have the confidence to know that if a storm comes through and drops a load of rain, there will be no water left standing on the surface to crack and destroy the fruits of our labor.
In that moment of triumph, when the work is all done, we will have peace.
Until then, we continue trying to keep our gaze pointed upward and pray for the strength to back up and redo the V’s as they come.
In my church, we call that ”repentance”.
In pondering this long and sometimes frustrating process, I am reminded of a statement made by Joseph Smith to George Albert Smith:
“Never be discouraged,” he said. ”If I were sunk in the lowest pits of Nova Scotia, with the Rocky Mountains piled on me, I would hang on, exercise faith, and keep up good courage, and I would come out on top.”
If your life has taken a turn off of the ”gravy train” of main-line pulling and you find yourself mired down deep in the bowels of a parking lot battling the sweltering July heat, remember to “excercise faith and keep good courage”.
No trial lasts forever.
As my Grandma Jones used to say:
“This, too, shall pass.”
In the meantime, just keep moving.
Each shovel full of asphalt brings you one step closer to finishing of the parking lot.
Look out for the V’s as you go.
Don’t be afraid to back up and fix a rough spot if you have to.
And remember the wisdom of an asphalt foreman spoken not so long ago in a parking lot that probably still drains well after a storm comes through:
Always pave with your eyes looking up.
In such moments, I like to remember my years working in the road construction industry. When Katherine and I were first starting out, I went to work for an asphalt paving contractor as a laborer. When I started the job, I had very little experience in asphalt paving, but soon picked up a keen interest in learning the different job stations. Although the work was hot, tiring, and mentally challenging, I came home with a great sense of satisfaction and accomplishment I have found hard to duplicate in other job fields.
It didn’t take me long to learn that, when it comes to paving, you didn’t want to be stuck working in a parking lot. Rather, you wanted to be paving a long, straight road where you could set the screed, put the paver in high gear, and (as they used to say on the crew), “let ‘er ride”.
Pulling on main roads involved very little physical or mental effort.
On the other hand, parking lots were a headache of epic proportions. Drainage was a challenge, the paver was constantly having to pick up and set down in tight areas, and there was a slew of “hand work” to be done, which translated into shoveling and raking piles of steaming asphalt where the paver couldn’t fit.
If you worked on a paving crew, you did what you could to avoid having to face such an ordeal.
Like it or not, though, our crew ended up working its share of parking lots.
Like any unpleasant task, we got used to the tedious labor and tried not to complain too much if we drew the shortest straw and worked for a few days in tight quarters.
One day, our proverbial number had come up and we were pushing our way through a large parking lot somewhere in Newport News. That particular morning, I happened to be standing near the foreman as he directed the paver to the low side of the lot to begin paving.
I looked at the operation he had set up and wondered why he was paving the lot in this particular manner.
To my thinking, it would have made more sense to do it another way.
When I asked him about it, he told me something that I have always remembered since:
“You should always pave from the low side up,” he said.
I asked him why.
“It helps keep the ”V’s” out of the parking lot,” he said.
You should know that “V’s” in a parking lot are an absolute taboo for a paving contractor. Unless the V is there by design (in which case it is called a “swale”), the defect in the asphalt topping will trap water and prevent it from draining. When it rains, the V’s in a parking lot are readily noticeable because there is standing water left on the surface. Since water is known to erode asphalt over time, the “lakes” and “puddles” that are left after a storm will diminish the life of the parking lot. Soon, the asphalt will degrade and crack into pieces, causing a need for expensive and unsightly patches.
Such drainage problems can actually cause a parking lot to fail inspection, with the general contractor refusing to pay for the parking lot until corrections are made.
My foreman’s rule of thumb in starting operations at the low side of the parking lot proved to be wise.
“When you’re paving up,” he explained, ”it’s much easier to spot the V’s. If you do happen to spot a V in the asphalt, you can stop and have a quick redo while the asphalt is still hot. On the other hand, when you start at the top and pave down, you often get to the last pull where you are tying in to the gutter and discover too late that you have a V in the asphalt. By that time, there’s not much you can do because the asphalt has been rolled and is cool.”
After that morning’s conversation with the foreman about V’s, I began observing the asphalt to test his theory.
I found that what he was saying was true.
For whatever reason, looking up across the parking lot while paving made V’s much easier to spot. Over the years, I worked with other foreman who decided not abide by this rule, and found out the hard way that paving from the top down could sometimes lead to disaster.
As I have remembered my escapades in asphalt paving lately, I have thought often about this tailgate wisdom in always “paving up”.
Perhaps there is a bit of practical inspiration in there that transcends asphalt paving operations.
“Paving up” may have implications for each of us.
Whether we are breezing along on a mainline section of road, or are stuck in a parking lot looking for the dreaded V’s, or maybe even struggling along the road of life just trying to make it through another day, there is something that is soothing about focusing our eyes upward.
Not only are we able to more easily spot and deal with the occasional V’s in our lives, we are also able to fix our minds resolutely on where we are going, which tends to lend even the most mundane and exasperating days a sense of meaning and purpose.
With each pass we make across our parking lot, we get closer and closer to the top.
We know that when we get there, we will be able to look back down over our work and see a functionally beautiful work of art. We will also have the confidence to know that if a storm comes through and drops a load of rain, there will be no water left standing on the surface to crack and destroy the fruits of our labor.
In that moment of triumph, when the work is all done, we will have peace.
Until then, we continue trying to keep our gaze pointed upward and pray for the strength to back up and redo the V’s as they come.
In my church, we call that ”repentance”.
In pondering this long and sometimes frustrating process, I am reminded of a statement made by Joseph Smith to George Albert Smith:
“Never be discouraged,” he said. ”If I were sunk in the lowest pits of Nova Scotia, with the Rocky Mountains piled on me, I would hang on, exercise faith, and keep up good courage, and I would come out on top.”
If your life has taken a turn off of the ”gravy train” of main-line pulling and you find yourself mired down deep in the bowels of a parking lot battling the sweltering July heat, remember to “excercise faith and keep good courage”.
No trial lasts forever.
As my Grandma Jones used to say:
“This, too, shall pass.”
In the meantime, just keep moving.
Each shovel full of asphalt brings you one step closer to finishing of the parking lot.
Look out for the V’s as you go.
Don’t be afraid to back up and fix a rough spot if you have to.
And remember the wisdom of an asphalt foreman spoken not so long ago in a parking lot that probably still drains well after a storm comes through:
Always pave with your eyes looking up.
Friday, July 8, 2011
The Bible, The Boy and The Ball
December 25 is the day that most Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ.
Much historical information has come to light over the years that suggest that Jesus was not born in December. In fact, my faith holds that Christ was born in the month of April.
That said, I have never believed that squabbles over which month we should celebrate Christ’s birth are nearly as important as the celebration of what the Savior actually did with His life. In fact, I am glad that we as a collective people have elected to celebrate the birth of Christ in December, as I fear it’s proximity to the celebration of Easter would tend to culminate in one big holiday and not as two separate entities that can inspire us at different intervals of the year.
Whether we are celebrating Christ’s birth in December or April (or both!) many of us will be in church on Easter Sunday to celebrate the atonement and resurrection of our Lord that occurred some 2000 years ago. It will be my privilege to join in that celebration, witnessing that Jesus Christ is indeed the savior of the world, and that the power of His atonement is sufficient to heal any wound, forgive any sin, and lift any burden. I have had my share of ups and downs in trying to live His commandments, but I love Him, and am grateful beyond my ability to express for His influence in my life.
I wrote the following post back in December, on Christmas Eve, and never published it.
I share it now just after the eve of the resurrection with the intent of helping both myself and others focus on both the birth and the life of Jesus Christ.
May His spirit strive inside each of us as we “walk toward the sound of music”.
——————————————————————————————
My wife, Katherine, likes to sing.
She’s actually pretty good at it.
I never realized she could carry a tune until this past year when I heard her singing in harmony with songs on the radio. Whether she decided to take up singing during the time-frame I had noticed or had actually been singing all the other 15 years of our marriage without my noticing is any one’s guess.
Either way, I began to listen.
“You should join the church choir,” I told her one night while we were riding home in our mini-van.
She just laughed and kept singing along with Elton John’s Tiny Dancer, which was the song that was playing on the radio station at the time.
I continued to listen.
She really was pretty good.
Not long after that, we visited my sister, Mandy, and her husband for dinner. As fate would have it, they had just purchased one of those sing-along karaoke video games that was set up much like the more popular music-themed Guitar Hero and Rock Band. The game came with a selection of 80′s and 90′s music, a microphone that was hooked up to the TV sound system, and a screen display that let you know the words to the song and how close to being on key you were. Each contestant, in competition with another person in the group, was challenged to sing the lyrics to a pre-selected song into their prospective microphones. The TV screen processed the sensory input and let everyone know who was winning the contest, which was determined by how many times each contestant goofed during the song and sang off-key.
The person with the least mistakes won.
The game brought out more than a few laughs after dinner as we tried to sing our favorite teen anthems, and I could see how contestants needed to be fairly comfortable with others who were playing in order to open up and really sing.
It was no surprise to me when Katherine aced all of her songs – she was a natural.
I was surprised, however, to learn that my sister could carry a tune as well, since she had never shown any aptitude or interest in music growing up.
She and Katherine were a pretty close contest.
I couldn't keep up with either of them…I have never been a singer.
On the way home, I complimented Katherine again on her newly discovered talent and, as before, mentioned the church choir. She still didn't take me seriously.
The next day in church, I decided to give her a nudge in the right direction. Katherine and I were friends with the ward choir director, who had recently been appointed to her position and was looking for volunteers. After Sunday school that day, I mentioned to the director that Katherine had recently taken a liking to singing, and that she might respond favorably to an invitation to take part in the choir. No more encouragement was needed. The director approached Katherine and extended an invitation. Thankfully, Katherine was gracious with my not-so-subtle meddling, and agreed to stay after church for practice that day.
With nothing else to do while I waited for choir practice to end, I decided to hang out with my nine-year old daughter, Kendall, and my toddler son, Matthew in the Cultural Hall of the church so that they could burn off some calories after trying valiantly to sit still in church for three hours. As they ran back and forth across the basketball court, other parents heard the ruckus and poked their heads in to see what was going on. It wasn’t long before some of the choir members who had children of their own started to notice that there was an adult watching kids in the Cultural Hall. Apparently, a lightbulb went off in someone’s mind, because children began to mysteriously appear in my designated waiting spot like leaves budding on a tree in March. They were all full of energy. They all wanted to play. And they all had parents who were slipping off toward the Relief Society room where the choir had commenced practicing.
It was great to feel needed.
I chuckled to myself and wondered if the Lord was teaching me a lesson about meddling in my wife’s business.
If so, it was a pretty painless lesson.
The kids, though energetic, were well-behaved. I had taught some of them in my CTR-5 class when I served in the Primary program the year before, so it was nice to be able to have a chance to talk to them again.
As it turned out, watching kids in the Cultural Hall became a routine activity for me over the next several months while the choir practiced after church. Occasionally, another parent would join me, and we would laugh as we watched the children’s clumsy social antics.
One afternoon after church was over, I was sitting in my usual post listening to the muted strains of Christmas carols drifting through the practice room door. Kendall, Matthew and another young man were my only children at the moment. They were kicking a large, blue ball around the room, and were being a little more noisy than I would have liked. There was another ward meeting for Sacrament services in the room next to the Cultural Hall. Not wanting to disturb the reverence of the chapel with the thudding of bouncing balls crashing against the partition, I frequently admonished the three children to calm themselves down and turn to quieter activities.
Unfortunately, they would have none of it.
The miniature offending angels looked at me with alternating expressions of annoyance and indifference, then resumed their game of kick-volley-basket-ball.
In the midst of this boisterous activity, the door to the Cultural hall opened.
I waited for a face to appear from in back of the door, and wondered if it was a member of the Williamsburg Ward Bishopric coming in to scold us for our rowdiness.
We certainly had it coming.
Today, however, it seemed that luck was on our side.
Instead of an offended clergyman, a curious blond-haired boy stepped in.
He was six-years-old or so, and had obviously just arrived at church. His parents were most likely shaking hands with other adults in the chapel, and were nowhere in sight. The boy had probably heard the noise inside the Cultural hall and slipped away to investigate.
He wore a white shirt, a tie, a dark-colored sweater vest, and a dark pair of dress pants with neatly buffed shoes. In his left hand, he held a set of scriptures. It was clear that he had been well-prepped by his parents about appropriate behavior inside of the church building. He still had an air of reverence about him that was probably the result of a quiet, peaceful ride to church with his parents.
He looked at the three unruly children playing with the ball and hesitated, probably wondering how to react.
It didn’t take him long to come to himself.
After all, he was a boy, and boys are hardwired to chase, grapple with, and confiscate bouncing balls before heaving them back into airborne orbit. The boy abandoned his reverence and jumped into the game with arms flailing and elbows thumping. His laughter mingled with the excited giggles of the other children. Before I had a chance to try to disassemble the band of church-ball rebels again, the boy’s father walked into the room. He looked around the room, spotted his son, and then stood quietly with his back against the wall near the entry-door. The boy’s enthusiasm for playing ball abated a little when he saw that he was under scrutiny. Once he figured out that dad wasn’t going to interfere, he resumed his bouncing and throwing.
I was embarrassed by my lack of ability to control the children, but was soon put at ease when the man pleasantly remarked:
“Better to get the wiggles out now…before church starts.”
I smiled and agreed.
Here was a fellow who understood that, despite our well-meaning attempts to preserve the reverent atmosphere of a sanctuary, the wiggles must be dealt with – sooner rather than later.
After a few minutes, the man called his son over to him. It was time to go. The organ was playing in the chapel, signaling the start of the Sacrament meeting. The man dusted off his son’s shoulders and tucked the disheveled white shirt back into the dark dress pants. Then he handed his son his Bible and, together, they walked back toward the hallway that led into the chapel.
Soon after they left, Katherine came out of the choir room with a big smile on her face. She always appeared to be energized by choir practice – especially when she was singing Christmas carols. I was glad to see she had found her niche.
On the way home, I thought about the boy who had visited us that afternoon in the Cultural Hall. He definitely made an interesting character-study. On one hand, he had been quiet and reverent when he walked into the church, ready to sit quietly and contentedly during the talks that were given. On the other hand, he had eventually decided to trade in his serenity for a rowdier mind-set, setting down his Bible in favor of good times with new friends.
I wondered which version of the boy was the real McCoy.
I thought about the Bible he had been clutching when he came into the Cultural Hall, and then thought about that large bouncing ball he was chasing just before he left.
Which did he enjoy holding the most…the Bible or the ball?
For a boy of such a young age, we all know what his preferences would likely be… at least for the next few years.
But I decided not to count him out just yet.
One day he would likely be chasing kids of his own around the church building and looking back on his escapades in the Cultural Hall with a rueful grin.
As I continued to make preparations for the holiday season that year, I pondered this experience with the young man in the Cultural Hall often. Many times, I caught myself wondering if we adults don’t all have a bit in more in common with our paradoxical young friend than we realize. To me, it seemed like our family opened the door on Christmas that year much like our young friend did when he entered the Cultural hall in our church – with a spirit of well-meaning reverence, holding our Bibles in one hand and doing our best to keep our shirts tucked in and our shoes shining. After observing the excited behavior around us, we, like our friend, momentarily sat our Bibles aside to reach out toward the madness of the moment. Despite our best efforts to keep Christmas in perspective , we were neck-deep in expensive gifts, stacks of holiday cards, and one-too-many chocolate chip cookies melting in our mouths.
It can be hard to turn down the games and diversions of the temporal world. – they are…well…they’re just fun!
If we don’t watch ourselves, though, I think we will eventually find that secularism is not without its price. We simply cannot hold onto our Bibles while engaging ourselves in a vigorous game of kick ball. At some point, we will have to set one or the other down.
I am grateful for the folks who always seem to appear at just the right moment to help us see when we have gotten too far off track.
Sometimes these spiritual mentors materialize in the form of a parent, a friend, a spouse, or an ecclesiastical leader.
Sometimes, they even appear as our own children.
Such people bring to mind a certain bemused father who, after searching high and low in the chapel, meandered into the Cultural Hall to find his lost son.
Once he had scouted his boy out, he didn’t scold him for being irresponsible. He didn’t yell about how his neatly tucked shirt that had come undone.
Instead, he paused a moment to watch his son’s activities.
He knew that those wiggles had to come out.
But he also knew when it was time to wrap up the play session and head toward the chapel. When the time was right, he called the boy over to his side. He gathered him up, dusted him off, and handed him his Bible. Then they walked out of the Cultural Hall together toward the hallway and the sounds of the softly playing organ music.
Such stories, though they are simple and ordinary, tend to leave me feeling a little better about the world we live in. In a way, they kind of remind me of our own relationship with our Heavenly Father. When we are lost in the maze of materialism and worldliness, He always seems to find us. Like the prodigal’s father, he takes time to rejoice that we have been found. When the time is right, He dusts us off, helps us tuck in our shirts, hands us our Bible, and shows us the way toward the chapel, where the “yoke is easy and the burden is light.”
“Come unto me, all ye that labor, and are heavy laden,” He says, “and you shall find rest to your souls.”
Sometimes, such “rest to our souls” can seem fleeting in the flurry of activity around us.
We can sometimes feel heavy-laden even when we are trying our best to do the right thing.
Where is the peace we seek?
If you ask me, we don’t need to look any further than the little black book the boy brought into the Cultural Hall that Sunday – the book that our Father wants to help us write in the fleshy tablets of our hearts.
Sometimes, we unwittingly set our Bibles down so we can play a round of “church-ball”.
Other times, we find it right there in our hands and in our hearts, waiting for us to open it.
Either way, there are some stories inside of that book there that are worth hearing; stories that are worth telling over and over as we celebrate the true meaning of our holiday seasons:
“And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed….
And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)
To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.
And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.
And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.”
(Luke 2:1-7)
Two thousand years ago, the still of a silent night was pierced by a single cry.
It was the cry of the babe in Bethlehem.
Named in several millennia of prophesy, he had come in the flesh to “save that which was lost.”
“And his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.”
(Isaiah 9:6)
The peace we seek is closer than we think.
We just have to find a way to set down the church-ball for just a few seconds, and go to that place inside of us that is quiet and reverent, where we can hear the echos of the newborn’s cry deep inside of our souls. Perhaps Linus, when speaking to a dejected Charlie Brown who had lost the meaning of what the season was about, said it best on A Charlie Brown Christmas:
“That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”
And so it is.
The joy of the bells on Christmas day offers splendid prelude to the quiet still of another day not far distant. After a life spent in service and perfect obedience to God’s will, the reason for the holiday season culminated quietly in the confines of a small, borrowed sepulcher.
The sun had risen on the first Easter.
“ After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb.
There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it.
His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men.
The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified.
He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay.
Then go quickly and tell his disciples: ‘He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.’ Now I have told you.”
So the women hurried away from the tomb, afraid yet filled with joy, and ran to tell his disciples.”
(Matt 28:1-8)
As I continue to ponder the lesson I learned from the boy who wandered into the Cultural Hall after church, I smile and realize that no matter what we have our hands on at this particular moment – the Bible or the ball – that there is hope rising into the night sky when we look at the stars on Christmas Eve. It is the joyful prelude to the light and hope that dawns inside of us when we notice the blooming flowers, budding trees, and newness of life on Easter morning.
Take a look to the east just before sunrise on Easter Sunday and maybe you’ll see a faint impression of a star that once shone brightly, looking down on a darkened world.
That light will continue to shine down on each one of us as we dust ourselves off, tuck in our shirts, pick up our Bibles, and head back out toward the sound of music.
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