It's the first Sunday of May. Traditionally in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the first Sunday of every month is fast and testimony meeting.
For the fasting part, church members are basically invited to skip two meals and donate what they would have spent to the poor and needy. It's a good opportunity to pray for divine inspiration or help. It's also a private, personal experience and nobody is going to ask you if you did it.
Conversely, testimony meeting is public. During the first hour of church, members are invited to share their thoughts and feelings, or "testimonies," of Jesus Christ. Anyone can walk up to the microphone at the front of the room and share.
Recently, all church meetings have been canceled due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Clayton and I hold our own meetings at home.
I felt the desire to share my testimony today. It's different writing it down instead of talking about it, but that's okay. I've sometimes thought it's easier to express myself in writing anyway.
This week I was reading an article in Ensign magazine that mentioned the "triangle of faith." The author explains the points in the triangle as 1) the Spirit, 2) the scriptures, and 3) the prophets, "especially living ones." A triangle is a strong shape, and working on our personal triangle of faith helps keep us spiritually strong. (Benjamin Hyrum White, "Sherem's Skepticism: The Tactics of a Faith Shaker," Ensign, April 2020)
The triangle of faith imagery appealed to me. But I adapted it a little because I feel the scriptures and the prophets are sort of the same. After all, what are scriptures but the words of prophets written down? To me, it makes more sense for the points in the triangle to be prayer, scriptures (including the words of living prophets), and the Spirit.
As I thought about my personal triangle of faith, I realized that each point has played a significant role in my own relationship with God.
Prayer
I first began to be aware of God at a young age. My parents taught me to pray and took me to Church. I had numerous experiences as a child praying for God's help. Sometimes I was praying for help finding something I'd lost; other times I prayed for help going back to sleep after a bad dream. One time when I was 12 or 13, I remember my bishop asking me how often I prayed and I replied, "Pretty much all the time. I need a lot of help." (If only 12-year-old me knew how much help 27-year-old me was going to need. Nothing has changed, haha.)
These experiences going to a loving Heavenly Father in prayer became a crucial part of the foundation of my relationship with Him.
Scriptures (words of God's prophets, including living ones)
The scriptures, particularly the Book of Mormon, also played a huge role in helping me form a relationship with God. I read it by myself for the first time in 2005, when President Gordon B. Hinckley challenged all church members to read it all the way through by the end of the year.
I've had questions and doubts over the years about certain aspects of the gospel, but there's always one thing I cannot deny: I know the Book of Mormon came from God. I've read it numerous times and prayed to know the truth about its origins. Every time I read it, I feel the Spirit. And the Book of Mormon played such a central role in the formation of my particular religion that if it's true, so is everything else: Joseph Smith was actually a prophet of God, and this is Jesus Christ's New Testament church restored to Earth.
That thought has brought me a lot of peace. I may not understand everything perfectly, but I do know the Book of Mormon is true, which means at least I'm looking for answers in the right place.
The Spirit
Of course, the Spirit is the key to anyone's relationship with God. He often acts as a messenger from God, and one of his many responsibilities is to testify of truth.
The Spirit is sort of like the glue that holds my testimony together; it's how I know the Book of Mormon is true and there is a living prophet of God today. When I pray, the answers or comfort I seek typically come from the Spirit.
I've written about how my testimony has been fundamentally shaped by the Spirit before, and I don't plan to go into it all again. Suffice it to say, I agree with President Harold B. Lee when he said the witness of the Holy Spirit is more powerful than any physical witness humankind could have that there is a loving God in heaven; a Heavenly Father who cares about us and wants us to be happy.
Everyone feels the Spirit differently. For me, I know something is true when it just makes sense; there's just a feeling that it's right. I sometimes also get a tingling warm feeling confirming that it's right.
One of the best things about God is He is no respecter of persons. That means that no matter who you are, He loves you and He will make Himself and His will known to you if you sincerely seek for it. It doesn't always come right away---actually in my experience, it almost never comes right away. God likes it when we take a few actions on our own because that demonstrates our willingness to believe in Him and trust Him. But in His perfect timing, He will eventually answer you. I know because it happened to me.
Because life is hard and inevitably wears me down, I have to continually seek Him through prayer, the scriptures, and the Spirit. I have to remember the experiences I've had with Him in the past as well as have new ones. I think that's the key to keeping our triangle of faith---and our relationship with God---strong.
Showing posts with label feeling pensive. Show all posts
Showing posts with label feeling pensive. Show all posts
Sunday, May 3, 2020
Sunday, July 7, 2019
My friend Casey
It was one of the first days of January 2018 when I found out that my childhood friend Casey passed away on December 31, 2017. I couldn't bring myself to blog about it then, but I always meant to write a post about him someday.
Casey was a great friend. We grew up across the street from each other. He was five months older than me, but we were in the same grade at school. He was a Christmas baby---his birthday is December 25.
We played together a lot as kids. One of our favorite things to do was make believe we were characters from Star Wars. I was usually the voice, narrating the story as we jumped on his trampoline. We built snow forts together in winter and rode bikes together in summer. He invited me to go fishing and four-wheeling with his family several times. He wanted to be a chef when he grew up, and we cooked together a few times. I still remember the look on his face when I showed him he could bake a potato in the microwave. We were in a few community plays together, took a drawing class together, and played together in the junior high school band for one year.
I have so many good memories of us when we were younger. In junior high school, we started to hang out with different people and began drifting apart. We still hung out occasionally, but not nearly as often. Casey had ADHD, and he struggled in school more than I did. Since I was taking as many honors classes as I could, that meant we weren't in the same classes at school anymore. Pretty soon, the only time I knew I could count on seeing him was on our walk to and from the bus stop.
I don't like losing touch with people, and I remember being upset that we were growing apart but not really knowing what to do about it. It was so much easier to just hang out with my other friends. It seemed like we had more in common and they were more available. I still tried to hang out with Casey sometimes, but we'd grown out of make-believe and it felt harder to find things to do.
Going to high school made it even harder to maintain our friendship. He went to the local high school. I went to a public charter school that gave me an opportunity to earn my associate's degree and my high school diploma simultaneously. Our schedules were radically different, and we lost that precious time walking to and from the bus stop. I still cared about him, but we rarely spent time together.
Finally, I came up with what seemed like the perfect excuse to hang out, and in our junior year, I asked him if he would take me to my school prom. He said yes.
I looked forward to that night so much. We went out to dinner and then got on the freeway to go to the dance. He asked if I'd ever broken 100 mph in a car before. I said no, and with a wide smile, he gave me that experience. When we arrived at the dance, however, he started to feel sick to his stomach. We never even went in; we had to turn around and go home. As he stopped in my driveway, he turned to me and said regretfully, "Let's do this again sometime---but next time, let's maybe not go to prom."
We never did go on another date. That was the year Casey dropped out of school. The next years of his life included a pattern of drug abuse. He'd be drug-free for a while, then relapse. He was booked into the county jail a few times on charges of possession of illegal drugs and drug paraphernalia. The first time he was incarcerated, he tried to call me. At the time, I was on my way to a college class. When I heard that an inmate wanted to talk to me, I got kind of freaked out and hung up before the voice recording could tell me who it was. I didn't realize until later that the call was probably from Casey.
He never tried to call me again, but we wrote letters. My roommates were a little alarmed the first time I got a letter postmarked from the county jail, but they got used to it.
I wanted to help Casey, but I didn't know how. His mom was already sending him to rehab. The only thing I could think of to do was share my beliefs with him. He grew up Catholic, so we had a lot of beliefs in common. The most important one was a belief in Jesus Christ as the Savior of the world.
When Casey's older brother Jake died, my heart broke for him. Casey worshipped Jake, and because he was in jail at the time I don't think he was allowed to go to Jake's funeral.
Casey came to visit me once after he got out of jail. We talked for a few minutes about life. He told me about his girlfriend at the time. We promised each other we'd stay in touch, but it was hard to follow through on that promise when I went on my mission.
We didn't talk at all while I was in El Salvador. I don't think I had his email address, and he probably didn't have mine. After my mission, I wrote him a couple times when he was in jail. I watched his house, hoping he would come home. I asked his mom how he was doing whenever I saw her outside. Once, I ran joyfully across the street, only to realize I had mistaken his younger brother Ryan for him.
By December 2017, it had been a long time since I'd talked with Casey, or even any of his family members. Clayton and I had just had our first wedding anniversary. Life was busy, and I no longer lived near Casey's house. I regret that we grew so far apart during junior high school, but find some comfort in knowing how I tried to keep our friendship alive. At the very least, Casey knew I cared.
I think about him often. He was a wonderful person who faced devastating challenges in life. I blame addiction for the overdose that took his life. My heart goes out to anyone who struggles with addiction or who loves someone struggling with addiction.
I don't believe this life is the end. I'll see Casey again. And when I see him, I believe he'll be free from his addiction. Jesus Christ is his Savior, just like He is mine. And just like He is yours.
Sunday, December 30, 2018
Starting Again
It's been a while since I felt compelled to add to my blog. There's plenty I could have said, but nothing seemed worth the effort until now. Writing comes from inspiration, and part of inspiration is work--actually sitting down to write and then listening to that inner voice that helps you know what to say.
For the better part of two years, the majority of my mental energy has been tapped to meet the challenges of a difficult job. But ever since I found a new job in November, my reservoir of mental energy has been filling again. Giving me a desire to resume writing, and resume sharing some of that writing here.
As I sit here in my quiet apartment, listening to Paul Cardall's beautiful, serene piano music on Pandora, it occurs to me that "starting again" is the essence of the gospel of Jesus Christ. He is the great Mediator between us and God.
When Christ suffered and died for our sins, He was meeting the demands of justice and creating an opportunity for mercy. Thanks to that act, each day we can start again fresh.
My mom has a saying. "Thanks to Jesus Christ, no bad thing is permanent and all good things can last forever." The bad thing could be an event, like the death of someone we love, or a character weakness, like the inner pride that makes it so hard to change. The good things I usually think of are my family, my friendships, and life's perfect moments.
Christ has redeemed us, and He invites everyone to use His gift to be a little bit better each day--bit by bit until we can actually feel comfortable in the presence of God. That's the ultimate goal of existence--to learn to live in such a way that we are truly Christlike, and can return with our loved ones to the presence of our Heavenly Father.
For the better part of two years, the majority of my mental energy has been tapped to meet the challenges of a difficult job. But ever since I found a new job in November, my reservoir of mental energy has been filling again. Giving me a desire to resume writing, and resume sharing some of that writing here.
As I sit here in my quiet apartment, listening to Paul Cardall's beautiful, serene piano music on Pandora, it occurs to me that "starting again" is the essence of the gospel of Jesus Christ. He is the great Mediator between us and God.
When Christ suffered and died for our sins, He was meeting the demands of justice and creating an opportunity for mercy. Thanks to that act, each day we can start again fresh.
My mom has a saying. "Thanks to Jesus Christ, no bad thing is permanent and all good things can last forever." The bad thing could be an event, like the death of someone we love, or a character weakness, like the inner pride that makes it so hard to change. The good things I usually think of are my family, my friendships, and life's perfect moments.
Christ has redeemed us, and He invites everyone to use His gift to be a little bit better each day--bit by bit until we can actually feel comfortable in the presence of God. That's the ultimate goal of existence--to learn to live in such a way that we are truly Christlike, and can return with our loved ones to the presence of our Heavenly Father.
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
Choosing Clayton
It’s funny. I had a secret crush on Clayton for a year before he finally asked me out, but after we became boyfriend and girlfriend, my nerves were suddenly wound so tight it was hard to really enjoy dating him. Doubts seemed to flood over me at the most inconvenient moments. Weeks passed before I let him kiss me again. Some days, I felt like I was on cloud nine with him. Other days, I was convinced breaking off the relationship would be better for both of us. I rarely mentioned details of my internal battle because Clayton seemed to have completely fallen for me and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. My decision to marry him evolved through weeks of serious, near-constant reflection.
One night six weeks after our first kiss, we decided to go to a few classes at BYU’s Education Week. There, I learned a principle that changed my life: Love is a choice.
"People talk about love like it's an accident sometimes," said our teacher, Justin Top. "We say, 'I fell in love,' as if we were walking along, tripped and faceplanted into love. But love isn't an accident; it's a choice. It takes effort and sacrifice."
Two days later on Sunday morning, one of the talks in church was about receiving personal revelation. For weeks, I had been praying, asking God if advancing my relationship with Clayton would be a good choice, and it suddenly hit me: God had already answered my prayer. His answer was: “Love is a choice.”
I felt amazing that day. I recognized God had given me an incredible gift: an opportunity to love and be loved by one of the best men I’d ever met. But Sunday passed and doubts crept back in. By Tuesday, I was trudging to the first day of my autumn institute of religion class, thinking once again it would be best to break up. There was only one problem: I couldn’t bear the thought of letting Clayton go. But didn’t he deserve someone who was totally sure she could marry him?
Happily, my inspired religion teacher came to my rescue that day. At the beginning of class, he asked everyone to say their name and one attribute they admired about themselves. I said my name was Jessica and I was an optimist. My teacher smiled at me and commented, “Just like President Hinckley. That’s a good quality.”
It probably didn’t seem like much to him, but to me that remark made a world of difference. As I thought of President Gordon B. Hinckley, I remembered some of his teachings and his optimistic, faith-filled attitude toward life. I realized the fear and anxiety I’d been experiencing as I contemplated marrying Clayton did not come from God, but the strong spiritual experience I’d had on Sunday did. That night I wrote in my class notes, “If I chose optimism, I’d choose Clay.” Since then, I’ve never reconsidered my decision to marry him.
One night six weeks after our first kiss, we decided to go to a few classes at BYU’s Education Week. There, I learned a principle that changed my life: Love is a choice.
"People talk about love like it's an accident sometimes," said our teacher, Justin Top. "We say, 'I fell in love,' as if we were walking along, tripped and faceplanted into love. But love isn't an accident; it's a choice. It takes effort and sacrifice."
Two days later on Sunday morning, one of the talks in church was about receiving personal revelation. For weeks, I had been praying, asking God if advancing my relationship with Clayton would be a good choice, and it suddenly hit me: God had already answered my prayer. His answer was: “Love is a choice.”
I felt amazing that day. I recognized God had given me an incredible gift: an opportunity to love and be loved by one of the best men I’d ever met. But Sunday passed and doubts crept back in. By Tuesday, I was trudging to the first day of my autumn institute of religion class, thinking once again it would be best to break up. There was only one problem: I couldn’t bear the thought of letting Clayton go. But didn’t he deserve someone who was totally sure she could marry him?
Happily, my inspired religion teacher came to my rescue that day. At the beginning of class, he asked everyone to say their name and one attribute they admired about themselves. I said my name was Jessica and I was an optimist. My teacher smiled at me and commented, “Just like President Hinckley. That’s a good quality.”
It probably didn’t seem like much to him, but to me that remark made a world of difference. As I thought of President Gordon B. Hinckley, I remembered some of his teachings and his optimistic, faith-filled attitude toward life. I realized the fear and anxiety I’d been experiencing as I contemplated marrying Clayton did not come from God, but the strong spiritual experience I’d had on Sunday did. That night I wrote in my class notes, “If I chose optimism, I’d choose Clay.” Since then, I’ve never reconsidered my decision to marry him.
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
A perfect day
"Have you ever experienced a perfect moment in time?"
"A perfect moment?"
"When time seemed to stop."
(Pauses) "Seeing my home planet from space for the first time."
"Yes."
- from Star Trek: Insurrection
This weekend, I experienced a perfect moment. It was actually a series of moments that filled an entire day. Honestly, it could not have been better.
My best friend got married in the Oakland California Temple. And I was privileged to be there for every moment of it.
There was a beautiful feeling in the temple that day - even more than usual. As I listened to the temple sealer share very personal insights into the sacredness of the temple and of marriage with Jennifer and her new husband, I was filled with a sense of awe. I am still in awe, of the goodness of God.
The rest of the day proved just as beautiful. It was evident how much the couple adored one another. They glowed with happiness. Their big smiles never left their faces.
Fast forward to this morning. I found myself studying the Christlike attribute of patience, and my thoughts turned immediately to Jennifer's wedding day. Sometimes God doesn't answer our prayers right away because He wants us to learn patience. He wants us to learn to move forward with our lives, meanwhile trusting in His timing in providing the answers we seek.
God is our loving heavenly father, and He has a plan for every one of His children. Sometimes, like on the day Jennifer got married, it's fulfilling to look back and reflect on how He guided us to where we are now.
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Celebrating a birthday with a prayer
In El Salvador, whenever someone has a birthday, their family always says a prayer for them. As missionaries, we were frequently asked to say the prayer.
The first time I saw it happen, I was puzzled and intrigued by the tradition. It didn't seem to be limited to members of just one church, but everyone of all different faiths (in all four areas where I served) followed it religiously. The words of the prayer varied, depending on who was saying it, but almost always included two key ideas:
Following the "Amen," I had a burst of inspiration. I think I understand now why the Salvadoreños say what they do in every birthday prayer. They are taught, seemingly from the cradle, a lesson that many people do not learn for a lifetime: that they must not take their lives for granted.
I spent 18 months living among them. Those experiences opened my eyes. They are precious and sacred to me. They cemented for me two truths:
The first time I saw it happen, I was puzzled and intrigued by the tradition. It didn't seem to be limited to members of just one church, but everyone of all different faiths (in all four areas where I served) followed it religiously. The words of the prayer varied, depending on who was saying it, but almost always included two key ideas:
- "Thank you for permitting [insert name here] another year of life."
- "Wilt Thou grant that [he/she] has many more years ahead."
Following the "Amen," I had a burst of inspiration. I think I understand now why the Salvadoreños say what they do in every birthday prayer. They are taught, seemingly from the cradle, a lesson that many people do not learn for a lifetime: that they must not take their lives for granted.
I spent 18 months living among them. Those experiences opened my eyes. They are precious and sacred to me. They cemented for me two truths:
- God lives.
- In life, it is much better to suffer believing in God than to suffer without any hope of redemption or resurrection. If we don't have hope in our bitter and dark moments that better and happier times will come, what are we living for? God and Jesus Christ are the only perfect Beings who cannot disappoint us. They are the only ones with the power to make us better than we are, and to return life to those who have died.
El Salvador is one of the most dangerous countries in the world because of gang violence. It's also filled with the most humble, faith-filled, resilient people I've ever known. In my life, I hope to value forever the lessons they taught me. One of the most basic lessons being not to take anything for granted, not even our own lives.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Looking in the mirror, a pensive short essay
When I shared this with you before, I called it "Scars." After writing on it (finishing it?) more today, the title didn't suit anymore. Here's the most recent version complete with a new title. Skip to the new part.
Kate stared at the back of her hand, looking at a long red scrape in particular which led toward the bandage on her thumb - the aftermath of accidentally brushing against a piece of broken glass. When she tired of tracing the thin bloody line, she turned her attention to the skin around it. It was pale and dry. If she looked closely, she imagined she could see every pore. She flexed her fingers and watched the muscles and sinew move underneath the skin. Her veins were very, very blue.
Her eyes moved to her right forearm, to a pale white scab that came of scratching a mosquito bite one too many times. She had scars on her back, shoulders, and torso from various accidents throughout her life, permanent reminders of painful experiences.
The human body was a marvelous thing, Kate thought, continuing to wave her fingers but watching the inside of her wrists now, in fascination. Its ability to recover from injury - even its very existence - was nothing short of miraculous.
Finished playing with the muscles in her hands, Kate’s hand strayed to her lower back where the largest scar was located. It was left over from a painful lancing when she contracted a staph infection when she was sixteen. The details of the memory had faded, but Kate could still remember how she cursed and cried and gritted her teeth when the nurse had lanced it. Just touching the scar reminded her how scared she’d been to show anyone the sore, and of the day when the pain of hiding it became greater than the fear of lancing and she had finally succumbed.
The scar didn’t pain her anymore. The wound had healed oddly, leaving a slight lump in the skin, but causing no further problems. Kate had moved on to other bumps and bruises, occasionally adding another scar to her collection. They were all memories of pain, of lessons learned or simple misfortunes. Though the pain of the experience was gone, the memories - and their physical representations - would never be.
It was part of life to have misfortunes, Kate thought. It was certainly part of life to make and hopefully learn from mistakes. And there were plenty of other wounds that left no physical trace but an occasional ache inside. There were things she would carry to her grave.
But an occasional ache didn’t mean unhealed. The difference was how often she ached, and how severely. The memory of pain was different from real hurt. Sometimes it was even a benefit, reminding her of past lessons she had no desire to relearn.
She was a new university freshman and excited about riding her bicycle to school for the first time. She thought she knew the way, but a turn taken too soon led her to the lower part of campus, from which the only routes to upper campus were a long series of stairs and a winding ramp she was too new to know about yet.
When she realized what had happened, she had simply picked up her bike and carried it up the six long flights of stairs. People kept stopping her to ask if she needed help, but each time she replied in the negative, determined to make it to the top by herself. When she finally reached the crest of the hill, she put down the bike and took a moment to breathe. And in the following moment of pride that she had overcome what had seemed a great challenge, she forgot how sweaty and undignified she must have looked.
It was interesting to note, Kate reflected now, thinking about similar athletic accomplishments, how often pride in a challenge well met correlated with some indignity. Getting her hands dirty, so to speak. Working hard, sometimes harder than she had planned for or expected.
That was her favorite kind of challenge: one she felt she could accomplish on her own merits, where she didn’t have to accept help from others. There was no way around it: Kate was an independent soul. She learned a lot about her own capabilities from such challenges, and for the most part, she enjoyed it. It was the challenges that taught her about her limits and weaknesses she didn’t like so much.
There was the summer when she had felt abandoned by someone she loved; the day her friends surprised her with a birthday party in the morning and she took her dog to be euthanized that afternoon. There were the stories behind almost every scar she had on her body, and the day a dear childhood friend called her from prison.
In each of those situations, and many others, there had been no easy way out, and no way to work through her complicated feelings alone. She had poured out her soul to God, and close friends, repeatedly. Some days were harder than others. Sometimes her emotions were so mixed up, whole days passed where she didn’t feel the same from one moment to the next, and she wondered if this was how it felt to go insane.
And yet. She had made it through each challenge, and although the scars on her soul still hurt, sometimes so badly she questioned whether they had really scabbed over at all, she knew. An occasional ache didn’t mean unhealed. The memory of pain was different from real hurt.
In the perspective that hindsight provided, Kate could even see a theme in each of those scars: that no matter how badly she wanted to be able to do everything herself, overcome everything herself, it was not on her own merits that she survived as well as she had. It was on another’s, one whose merits and goodness were perfect, who knew many sorrows and was acquainted with grief but in the very act of overcoming his own life challenges, he reached a non-exclusive hand behind to help pull others through theirs. It was his purpose, and he accomplished it well and willingly. Because of him, Kate knew she could handle future challenges - if only she could learn to ask for his help when she first needed it, because things always felt so much smoother that way. Not necessarily peaceful, but also not alone in grief.
In the Mirror, (c) J.M. Henrie
Kate stared at the back of her hand, looking at a long red scrape in particular which led toward the bandage on her thumb - the aftermath of accidentally brushing against a piece of broken glass. When she tired of tracing the thin bloody line, she turned her attention to the skin around it. It was pale and dry. If she looked closely, she imagined she could see every pore. She flexed her fingers and watched the muscles and sinew move underneath the skin. Her veins were very, very blue.
Her eyes moved to her right forearm, to a pale white scab that came of scratching a mosquito bite one too many times. She had scars on her back, shoulders, and torso from various accidents throughout her life, permanent reminders of painful experiences.
The human body was a marvelous thing, Kate thought, continuing to wave her fingers but watching the inside of her wrists now, in fascination. Its ability to recover from injury - even its very existence - was nothing short of miraculous.
Finished playing with the muscles in her hands, Kate’s hand strayed to her lower back where the largest scar was located. It was left over from a painful lancing when she contracted a staph infection when she was sixteen. The details of the memory had faded, but Kate could still remember how she cursed and cried and gritted her teeth when the nurse had lanced it. Just touching the scar reminded her how scared she’d been to show anyone the sore, and of the day when the pain of hiding it became greater than the fear of lancing and she had finally succumbed.
The scar didn’t pain her anymore. The wound had healed oddly, leaving a slight lump in the skin, but causing no further problems. Kate had moved on to other bumps and bruises, occasionally adding another scar to her collection. They were all memories of pain, of lessons learned or simple misfortunes. Though the pain of the experience was gone, the memories - and their physical representations - would never be.
It was part of life to have misfortunes, Kate thought. It was certainly part of life to make and hopefully learn from mistakes. And there were plenty of other wounds that left no physical trace but an occasional ache inside. There were things she would carry to her grave.
But an occasional ache didn’t mean unhealed. The difference was how often she ached, and how severely. The memory of pain was different from real hurt. Sometimes it was even a benefit, reminding her of past lessons she had no desire to relearn.
She was a new university freshman and excited about riding her bicycle to school for the first time. She thought she knew the way, but a turn taken too soon led her to the lower part of campus, from which the only routes to upper campus were a long series of stairs and a winding ramp she was too new to know about yet.
When she realized what had happened, she had simply picked up her bike and carried it up the six long flights of stairs. People kept stopping her to ask if she needed help, but each time she replied in the negative, determined to make it to the top by herself. When she finally reached the crest of the hill, she put down the bike and took a moment to breathe. And in the following moment of pride that she had overcome what had seemed a great challenge, she forgot how sweaty and undignified she must have looked.
It was interesting to note, Kate reflected now, thinking about similar athletic accomplishments, how often pride in a challenge well met correlated with some indignity. Getting her hands dirty, so to speak. Working hard, sometimes harder than she had planned for or expected.
That was her favorite kind of challenge: one she felt she could accomplish on her own merits, where she didn’t have to accept help from others. There was no way around it: Kate was an independent soul. She learned a lot about her own capabilities from such challenges, and for the most part, she enjoyed it. It was the challenges that taught her about her limits and weaknesses she didn’t like so much.
There was the summer when she had felt abandoned by someone she loved; the day her friends surprised her with a birthday party in the morning and she took her dog to be euthanized that afternoon. There were the stories behind almost every scar she had on her body, and the day a dear childhood friend called her from prison.
In each of those situations, and many others, there had been no easy way out, and no way to work through her complicated feelings alone. She had poured out her soul to God, and close friends, repeatedly. Some days were harder than others. Sometimes her emotions were so mixed up, whole days passed where she didn’t feel the same from one moment to the next, and she wondered if this was how it felt to go insane.
And yet. She had made it through each challenge, and although the scars on her soul still hurt, sometimes so badly she questioned whether they had really scabbed over at all, she knew. An occasional ache didn’t mean unhealed. The memory of pain was different from real hurt.
In the perspective that hindsight provided, Kate could even see a theme in each of those scars: that no matter how badly she wanted to be able to do everything herself, overcome everything herself, it was not on her own merits that she survived as well as she had. It was on another’s, one whose merits and goodness were perfect, who knew many sorrows and was acquainted with grief but in the very act of overcoming his own life challenges, he reached a non-exclusive hand behind to help pull others through theirs. It was his purpose, and he accomplished it well and willingly. Because of him, Kate knew she could handle future challenges - if only she could learn to ask for his help when she first needed it, because things always felt so much smoother that way. Not necessarily peaceful, but also not alone in grief.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Scars, a pensive short story
I've been working on a short story. I will be very upset if any of you steal my idea. ;) ... (But really, don't do that.) It's a personal story, almost autobiographical, so it'd be hard to copy anyway. I have an idea that lots of people relate to this subject, but in radically different ways. I'm taking my time with this story. I want it to be right. At the rate it's been growing, I probably won't finish it until after my mission, and I wouldn't want it any other way. Enjoy the preview you're getting now. Who knows what it will say in two or three years.
Kate stared at the back of her hand, looking at a long red scrape in particular which led toward the bandage on her thumb - the aftermath of accidentally brushing against a piece of broken glass. When she tired of tracing the thin bloody line, she turned her attention to the skin around it. It was pale and dry. If she looked closely, she imagined she could see every pore. She flexed her fingers and watched the muscles and sinew move underneath the skin. Her veins were very, very blue.
Her eyes moved to her right forearm, to a pale white scab that came of scratching a mosquito bite one too many times. She had scars on her back, shoulders, and torso from various accidents throughout her life, permanent reminders of painful experiences.
The human body was a marvelous thing, Kate thought, continuing to wave her fingers but watching the inside of her wrists now, in fascination. Its ability to recover from injury - even its very existence - was nothing short of miraculous.
Finished playing with the muscles in her hands, Kate’s hand strayed to her lower back where the largest scar was located. It was left over from a painful lancing when she contracted a staph infection when she was sixteen. The details of the memory had faded, but Kate could still remember how she cursed and cried and gritted her teeth when the nurse had lanced it. Just touching the scar reminded her how scared she’d been to show anyone the sore, and of the day when the pain of hiding it became greater than the fear of lancing and she had finally succumbed.
The scar didn’t pain her anymore. The wound had healed oddly, leaving a slight lump in the skin, but causing no further problems. Kate had moved on to other bumps and bruises, occasionally adding another scar to her collection. They were all memories of pain, of lessons learned or simple misfortunes. Though the pain of the experience was gone, the memories - and their physical representations - would never be.
It was part of life to have misfortunes, Kate thought. It was certainly part of life to make and hopefully learn from mistakes. And there were plenty of other wounds that left no physical trace but an occasional ache inside. There were things she would carry to her grave.
But an occasional ache didn’t mean unhealed. The difference was how often she ached, and how severely. The memory of pain was different from real hurt. Sometimes it was even a benefit, reminding her of past lessons she had no desire to relearn.
Scars, (c) J.M. Henrie
Kate stared at the back of her hand, looking at a long red scrape in particular which led toward the bandage on her thumb - the aftermath of accidentally brushing against a piece of broken glass. When she tired of tracing the thin bloody line, she turned her attention to the skin around it. It was pale and dry. If she looked closely, she imagined she could see every pore. She flexed her fingers and watched the muscles and sinew move underneath the skin. Her veins were very, very blue.
Her eyes moved to her right forearm, to a pale white scab that came of scratching a mosquito bite one too many times. She had scars on her back, shoulders, and torso from various accidents throughout her life, permanent reminders of painful experiences.
The human body was a marvelous thing, Kate thought, continuing to wave her fingers but watching the inside of her wrists now, in fascination. Its ability to recover from injury - even its very existence - was nothing short of miraculous.
Finished playing with the muscles in her hands, Kate’s hand strayed to her lower back where the largest scar was located. It was left over from a painful lancing when she contracted a staph infection when she was sixteen. The details of the memory had faded, but Kate could still remember how she cursed and cried and gritted her teeth when the nurse had lanced it. Just touching the scar reminded her how scared she’d been to show anyone the sore, and of the day when the pain of hiding it became greater than the fear of lancing and she had finally succumbed.
The scar didn’t pain her anymore. The wound had healed oddly, leaving a slight lump in the skin, but causing no further problems. Kate had moved on to other bumps and bruises, occasionally adding another scar to her collection. They were all memories of pain, of lessons learned or simple misfortunes. Though the pain of the experience was gone, the memories - and their physical representations - would never be.
It was part of life to have misfortunes, Kate thought. It was certainly part of life to make and hopefully learn from mistakes. And there were plenty of other wounds that left no physical trace but an occasional ache inside. There were things she would carry to her grave.
But an occasional ache didn’t mean unhealed. The difference was how often she ached, and how severely. The memory of pain was different from real hurt. Sometimes it was even a benefit, reminding her of past lessons she had no desire to relearn.
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