The Lamb of God

I would say that I can't believe nearly a year and a half have passed since my last post, but in reality it feels more like 10 years.  Life has taken a unique and challenging set of twist and turns over the past 18 months, the result of which has at times been overwhelming but has also filled my heart with deeper gratitude and humility for the blessings that flow so freely and abundantly through my life.  The reality that life is, indeed, very hard has hit me like a tidal wave in recent months, yet I've found myself repeatedly buoyed back up by the rising tides of friendship, obedience, and truth, just to name a few.  There's really no good place to begin my story so I'll just start and end with what matters most - the Atonement of Christ.

Two weeks ago, I found myself in the auditorium of Cottonwood High School in Salt Lake City, preparing to take in a musical and vocal performance of The Lamb of God.  I was in the midst of my yearly pilgrimage to SLC to visit Mike and Jason and had the good fortune to time my trip to catch Jason's performance in this powerful event.  When I told him a month or two earlier that I was thinking of coming to Utah, he encouraged me to target the weekend of the performance, as he was confident I would love the music.  Little did he know just how much I needed this opportunity and how it would impact me...or perhaps he did.  Either way, I took his advice and planned the trip around the performance.  I've had the good fortune over the years to be a part of some amazing musical groups and performances and I have a tender relationship with spiritual music.  I remember when Elder Gene R. Cook spoke to our mission and taught us how to invite the Spirit in to our conversations with others.  He listed things like prayer, reading from the scriptures, even offering sincere thanks and appreciation, all of which certainly have the power to invite the Holy Ghost and all of which have played significant roles in my life.  But the one he noted that has always had the greatest impact on me is spiritual music.  I've always been drawn toward powerful music and I've found that it alone has the ability to pierce my often hard heart and pull me toward divinity.  Perhaps it was my previous positive experiences with choirs and musical performances or maybe it was just the Spirit offering a sign of things to come, but as the day of the Lamb of God performance neared I found myself looking forward to 2 pm on Saturday afternoon with a degree of spiritual anticipation I had rarely experienced.  I even felt an urge to pray about the experience I would have, feeling somehow that I was meant not only to be there and hear this message but that it would have a meaningful and lasting impact on me.

Perhaps I should go back even further.  As long as I can remember, I have believed in Christ.  I have been blessed to understand and believe the truths I have been taught and to have a desire to follow these truths.  The challenge for me, as I'm sure it is for others, has always been to follow through on these beliefs and desires and use my agency for good.  My battle with addictions began before I donned my high school graduation robe.  Of course I had no idea of the severity of the battle I was facing at that time and the devastating toll it would take on my life and the lives of those who are most dear to me; in fact, more than 15 years would pass before I would finally admit to myself that I was powerless to overcome these challenges alone.  The journey began on New Year's Day of my senior year of high school, when I decided that I could no longer live with the all-consuming guilt and sadness of sin and transgression.  I resolved to call my Bishop and opened my heart to the possibility that forgiveness might be possible, even for me.  The experience was one to be forgotten; I left feeling emptier and worse about myself than I did on entry and my broken heart built a terrible wall of anger and pride that would take years to knock down.  The next few months were filled with friends, graduation, EFY, Youth Conference, and before I knew it I was off to BYU in the fall, having "repented" without seeking forgiveness.

One of the true devastations of addiction is the addict's reduced or altogether negated ability to choose and to follow the silent promptings of the Spirit.  My experience at BYU was full of amazing, uplifting experiences, good friends, and fantastic examples.  Unfortunately, these were overshadowed by deepening bouts of addictive behavior that limited my willingness to make good choices and hold to the rod.  By the time I left on my mission, I had lied my way through interviews and convinced others I was good to go; of course, I knew otherwise.  My time in the MTC was good but by the time I finished my first two months in Germany, I found myself in the depths of depression, an addict longing for the freedom of testimony and conversion but bound by the chains of slavery.  Satan powerfully tugged on these chains, convincing me that I had nothing to offer to the people of Germany, and I made the decision to come home from my mission.  I wished my companion well and boarded a train for Munich alone, the heavy burden of failure crushing my spirit during the four hour trip from Aalen.  But the Lord had other plans.  President Scholz gave me a blessing and sent me back to my companion, paving the way for the rest of my mission.  I'm so thankful the Lord saw fit to give me this opportunity, as I know I would not have been able to withstand the consequences of my subsequent decisions without the experiences I had those two years in Germany.  I'm sure He knew that as well.

Sadly, it didn't take long after my return home for the suffocating grip of addiction to overpower my life again, and by the time I had been home for only a year, I had gotten married, divorced, excommunicated, kicked out of BYU, and fired from my job teaching at the MTC.  I consider this dark time in my life as my first trip to "Rock Bottom," a place I hoped to never visit again but sadly would.  I felt the walls thicken around my heart as everything I knew and cared about was stripped from my life as a result of my own decisions.  Embarrassed, ashamed, and defeated don't begin to describe the torment of emotion racking my soul, and I became convinced that God would never again listen to my prayers of repentance or sorrow.  How could He?  I had prayed for forgiveness so many times, promising to change, committing to begin anew, yet each time turning back to my addictions and their despair.  Surely my pleas would fall on deaf ears.  But He was there.

That was nearly 15 years ago.  In the time that has passed, blessings have flowed freely.  I got baptized, married, graduated from college and added another degree, moved many times for work and grad school, adopted four beautiful children...the list is too long to recount.  But the battle with addictions continued as I made my way toward trip #2 to "Rock Bottom."  As I examined my life, the time I had wasted, the blessings I was foregoing, and the fraud I had become, I realized that my only hope of a life beyond this one with my family was to turn to Christ and apply His Atonement.  Finally, I decided it was over.  For the first time in my life, I admitted that I am an addict.  I admitted that I am, indeed, powerless to overcome my addiction without His intervention.  I joined the LDS Addiction Recovery Program, began seeing a counselor, and moved to a new location for a job that allows me to spend more time with my family.  More importantly, I began an earnest search of the scriptures and opened a dialog with Heavenly Father, one that has re-kindled the flame of a relationship that was cold for far too many years.  I have wept bitterly for the time that was wasted, the trust that was shattered, the hope that was defeated.  I have cried for forgiveness, begged for mercy, and sought solace for a soul that for so long has been racked with guilt and humiliation.  I have "wrestled with God in mighty prayer" as did Enos, asking for a remission of my sins and for the peace I hoped would accompany forgiveness.  It was in this spirit of contriteness and hope that I became aware, through Jason, of The Lamb of God.

On Saturday, March 29 2014, the hour finally arrived and Mike and I took our seats in the auditorium.  Before the music even started, the Spirit washed over my entire being, filling my eyes with tears.  As I heard the deep strings and the introductory bells of "Thou Hope and Deliverer," I became aware that something was happening inside of me, something that mattered and would change me for good.  For the next couple hours, I found myself taken back to the last week of Jesus' earthly life.  I imagined that I was there, that I was alive and observing it all.  I found myself in the shoes of Peter, John, and Thomas, the apostles who are represented in The Lamb of God.  I marveled at the insight I gained in to the thoughts and hearts of the ordinary men and women who were offered an extraordinary opportunity to spend a few days, months, or years with the Savior of the World.  Most significantly, I sat and wept as the reality of His atonement, portrayed so powerfully by the haunting tones of the solo cello, penetrated my soul to a depth I have never before experienced.  I wept as the stifling price that was paid for sin was all at once made so very clear.  Every painful mistake I have made along my stumble through life was brought to my attention - the bitter pains I have felt, the deeper pains I have caused those who are closest to me, and the deepest pains I have inflicted on the Man who suffered for each and every transgression on my lengthy list.

And then they were gone.  Not just pushed aside.  Not just hidden for a time, only to rear their ugly head again and again.  Gone.  In a miracle only possible through divine intervention and suffering beyond our human comprehension, my sins were forgiven.  Prayer after heartfelt prayer, dedicated study, sincere confession, and a true change of heart weren't enough.  They were absolutely necessary, entirely requisite...yet insufficient.  It took His infinite sacrifice, His consuming agony, and the voluntary submission of His life for my sins to be paid in full - but they were paid, in full.

I've spent many sleepless hours asking why.  Why did I have to face these terrible trials in my life?  Why, among all of the challenges to face, the burdens to carry, did I have to struggle with those so self-defeating, so deadly to my self-worth and confidence, and so painful to the people who love me?  I've spent hours with counselors, friends, family members, and total strangers-turned friends in my Addiction Recovery class, trying to understand the why behind all of this.  All of the tears, the heartache, the deep sadness I've felt and caused.  I've wanted so badly to understand why.  Especially in the darkest of times, so many questions have run through my mind.  Is something wrong with me?  Am I defective?  Maybe God punished me and took away my ability to have children.  Maybe there actually is no hope for me.  Maybe my chances of salvation, of being with my family beyond this mortal life, of ever emerging victorious over my deep flaws in character, have passed.  Even after sincere and heartfelt confessions and contrite prayers of repentance, I've doubted that I could be forgiven.  Doubted that I could ever truly change.

And then, toward the end of The Lamb of God, I heard my brother in doubt, Thomas, sing this (track # 16 on the CD The Lamb of God):

Not now, but in the coming years,
It may not be when we demand,
We’ll read the meaning of our tears,
And there, sometime, we’ll understand
Why what we long for most of all
Eludes our open, pleading hand;
Why ever silence meets our call
Somewhere, sometime, we’ll understand.

So trust in God through all thy days;
Fear not, for He doth hold thy hand;
Though dark thy way, still sing and praise,
Sometime, sometime we’ll understand.

Sometime we’ll fall on bended knee,
And feel there, graven on His hand;
Sometime with tearless eyes we’ll see
What here, we could not understand.

So trust in God through all thy days;
Fear not, for He doth hold thy hand;
Though dark thy way, still sing and praise,
Sometime, sometime we’ll understand.

The Lamb of God has so many messages to share and I'm sure that each of you who listens to it will take away something unique, something meant for you.  My hope is that it causes you to reflect on the absolute miracle that is the Atonement of Jesus Christ.  My hope is that each of us will take full advantage of this miracle and summon the courage of Peter to repent of our errors and change our hearts, no matter the cost, so that we may know the peace and joy that accompany forgiveness.  My testimony is that He lives.  As I sat in that audience on a chilly Saturday afternoon in Salt Lake City and listened to the testimonies of those who knew our Savior, the reality of those events was confirmed to my spirit with absolute, undeniable clarity and power.  He actually lived on this earth.  He showed the way, marked the path, illuminated the night.  He drank what surely was the bitterest of all cups, and he drank it voluntarily and willingly, fully aware of His role in the Plan and the criticality of His submission.  He drank it for you and for me.  And as suredly as He suffered and died, He rose again.  He rose to add victory to sure defeat.  He rose, and we will live again.

He who healed our sorrows
Here was bruised and broken.
He whose love no end knows
Here was forsaken,
Left all alone.
Here despair cries boldly,
Claiming this its vict'ry.
Sweeter peace enfolds me:
Hope did not die here,
But here was given.
Here is Hope.
He who was rejected,
He knows well my longing
He, so long expected
Carried our burdens,
Bore ev'ry sorrow:
Here is Hope!

("Here is Hope," Mary the Mother of Jesus)

Life is still hard.  People lose loved ones.  Trust is violated, dishonesty abounds, selfishness and greed rule, and sin and error engulf our society at ever-increasing speeds.  I still wake up every morning and face the same challenges, the same trials and temptations, and the same flaws of character.  But we don't have to face these things alone.  However deep the grief, however devastating the anguish, however powerful the temptation, He is there.  He who is "acquainted with grief, has carried our sorrows, was wounded for our transgressions...He is there.  And with His stripes, we are healed.

He has declared,
He is Messiah!
Yes, I know, and I believe
That this is He!

("This is He," Peter, John, and Thomas)

Life and Good Friends

I've been suffering from a serious case of Writer's Block over the past 5 or 6 weeks.  Even now I'm wondering exactly what to say and how to say it.  What I'm realizing ever so slowly is that I'm actually not much of a writer.  In fact, I'm the Matt Holliday of writing.  Matt, for the non-baseball fan, is an ox of a man who plays left field for the Cardinals and swings the bat hard enough to knock over a wall.  He's averaged about 25 home runs a year throughout his career...nothing to smirk at, especially given the fact that he's actually not a home run hitter at all.  Matt is a line drive hitter who happens to hit the ball so hard that it occasionally clears that fences.  It's actually rare to see him hit a traditional, fly-ball home run.  Most of his homers never go more than 25 feet off the ground and the usually make it over the fence in about 3 seconds.  So, he's a great hitter who occasionally "runs into one" and hits it out of the park.  That's me, in a writing sense.  I'm a good thinker - constantly processing, formulating, analyzing, and debating in my mind.  Occasionally I'll sit down to write and something decent will come out.  More often than not, I sit down and stare at the screen for some time, thinking and overthinking situations and circumstances and often struggling to find the best way to word them so that others might understand.  I don't read enough to have much of a vocabulary beyond what it takes me to communicate with four kids and a bunch of docs.  I always admire those who expand their utilization of the English language beyond traditional reach, but in general that's just not me.  Here's to pragmatism!

The original purpose of this blog was to talk about the things that happen on a routine basis in life that might otherwise go unnoticed but that illustrate the Hand of God and His goodness and mercy.  Looking back now, I'm not sure how I even made it 2 or 3 posts without covering today's topic.  As I type now, I'm sitting on a plane, traveling across the country to spend a few days with Mike.  Mike and I have known each other for about 14 years now, having met while we were serving our missions in Germany.  Interestingly, we weren't necessarily close friends while we were there, having not served together or near each other until near the ends of our missions.  Even when we were paired together, it was always about the work.  We actually worked very well together and gained great respect for each other, but most of our time and effort was spent on the work and our responsibilities as opposed to on developing our friendship.  Mike went home from his mission in March of 1999 and I followed a couple months later in May.  From there, I don't even think we communicated until we found each other in Provo later that fall.  Actually, that's really where the story begins.  It's actually amazing and somewhat scary to think of all that happened in the 18 months following my return from Germany, and most of that is a topic for a different day.  Suffice it to say that not many have fallen harder or faster than I did.  The months immediately following my mission were some of the hardest I've ever gone through.  I didn't know it at the time, and although some around me might have noticed or realized it, I wouldn't have admitted it even if they told me.  I don't remember much about that time, especially about what I felt or was thinking - I think I've been blessed to be able to forget about much of that period of my life - but I do vividly remember coming home from my mission and feeling very empty and alone.  Life was so full and busy in Germany.  My schedule was packed, everything I was doing was meaningful and impactful, and I was surrounded by people I cared about who also cared for me.  I was fulfilled and happy.

I've written and spoken before about my trip home from Germany.  Mom and Dad picked me up and we traveled around for a few days before venturing back home through Philadelphia.  As the plane began to descend into the Philly area, I was hit with the worst pressure headache I've ever experienced, one that literally brought me to tears.  What hit me even harder than the pain, though, was the realization that I had spent the last two years of my life as a set apart representative of the Lord, on His errand, and that He had protected and watched over me every step of the way.  I had never been sick in spite of the ever-changing weather.  I never struggled to wake up at 6:30 regardless of the long days of walking, biking, and knocking doors.  I never lacked for something to do, something meaningful and worthwhile, even though I was a 20-year-old kid in a foreign country who spoke to my family 2 times a year.  I was constantly surrounded by friends who shared the same values, hopes, aspirations, and dreams that I had, though we came from different backgrounds and locations.  It's not to say that there weren't hard days, both emotionally and physically; there certainly were.  But I was constantly watched over and protected, and now that I was at the end of my full-time service and preparing to touch down on US soil for the first time in two years, the realization was clear to me that those days were over.  I should have known I wasn't alone, but it didn't feel that way.  I had changed so much during those two years and I came home to the reality that not much around me had changed at all.  And I struggled mightily.  When I finally made it to Provo in early September, I wasn't in a good place, and the decisions that followed the next few months were some I would pay dearly for over the coming years.

The first time I remember spending much time with Mike after my mission was our mission reunion in October of 1999.  He was dating Lindsey at the time and the four of us went to the reunion together.  It's actually amazing to think about what's happened since that evening in our lives, and I can't help but to feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the friendship we've formed.  The circumstances of our lives lead us to choices that invite us to decide where we stand and what we will stand for, but they don't dictate our fates.  Similarly, our lives are touched by thousands of people but we choose whom we call friends.  For whatever reason, I've been blessed in my life to call a few truly amazing people my friends, and my life is as full and sweet as it is now in great part because of the impact they have had on me.  These relationships haven't been perfect because the people in them are far from perfect.  We go too long without connecting.  We miss birthdays, life events, and celebrations.  We get caught up in our busy lives and miss a phone call that we should have made.  But real friendship isn't about wishing Happy Birthday on Facebook or sending a holiday card every year when the calendar reminder shows up.  My friends are the guys I can call even after missing them for months or even years at a time and it's like we never stopped talking.  My friends are the ones who, behind their imperfections and flaws, share a deep desire to do the right thing, to treat people well, to be good husbands and fathers, and to balance their lives according to their priorities.  Interestingly, they're not necessarily guys who share a bunch of interests and hobbies with me.  Just common beliefs and principles.  And they care about me in spite of my shortcomings and mistakes because they see the person I'm trying to become.  There is no need to list them here because the list is short and they know who they are.

My trip to Washington DC is now complete and I've safely returned to my family.  I just spent my Saturday going to my kids' soccer games, preparing a lesson for Elders Quorum on Sacrifice and Submission (thanks Elder Maxwell!), and reflecting on the few days I spent with Mike.  I'm more grateful than ever for our friendship and the chance we had to spend a few days wandering the streets of DC.  Here's to life and good friends.

Follow Me!

Victoria.  The Roman Goddess of Victory.  I'm not sure exactly what events or matches our little Victoria will ever win in her life, but I know she quickly wins the heart of just about everyone she meets.  Lately, Victoria will run up and grab my hand and start pulling and tugging, saying "Follow me! Follow me!"  As we're walking or jogging or hopping up the stairs, she continues to repeat the phrase, over and over again, until we reach our destination.  Could be her room for bedtime.  Might be a riotous mess she has made that she wants me to see and appreciate.  Often it's a pile of books she has prepared for me to read to her.  Usually when she grabs my hand and wants me to follow, I'm in the middle of something else and I'm not ready to be hauled away.  But look at that face!  The crazy hair!  The teethy grin!  The squinty eyes!  Impossible not to follow and even to join her in the "Follow Me!" chorus.  And as I find myself sprinting up the stairs to find whatever it is she wants me to see, I see something different.  This is a brushstroke.  One of the thousands and millions of brushstrokes that will someday cover the canvas of her life.  And I'm one of the artists on this combined work.  From Elder Bednar:

In my office is a beautiful painting of a wheat field. The painting is a vast collection of individual brushstrokes—none of which in isolation is very interesting or impressive. In fact, if you stand close to the canvas, all you can see is a mass of seemingly unrelated and unattractive streaks of yellow and gold and brown paint. However, as you gradually move away from the canvas, all of the individual brushstrokes combine together and produce a magnificent landscape of a wheat field. Many ordinary, individual brushstrokes work together to create a captivating and beautiful painting. 

Each family prayer, each episode of family scripture study, and each family home evening is a brushstroke on the canvas of our souls. No one event may appear to be very impressive or memorable. But just as the yellow and gold and brown strokes of paint complement each other and produce an impressive masterpiece, so our consistency in doing seemingly small things can lead to significant spiritual results. “Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small things proceedeth that which is great” (D&C 64:33). 

The truth is, there aren't many who can make me smile wider and laugh harder, and in the same breath yell louder and anger quicker, than Victoria.  She draws every emotion in its purest form, often leaving me in awe and amazement that someone so small and innocent could tug so mightily at the deepest strings of my normally consistent and earnest soul.  Jeri and I often joke that if she had been our first, there may not have been three others behind her!  She demands every ounce of patience and tolerance I can muster, yet her genuinely sweet demeanor and her angelic heart give so much more than her craziness and antics take.  

Everyone whose life intersects with ours has a canvas.  Some are covered with brushstrokes and are nearing completion; others have just a few light strokes and a future to create.  Some canvases are small, needing only a touch of paint to become beautiful and complete.  Others are larger, with room to illustrate the wisdom of generations.  Each picture is unique, and each is a joint work of a lifetime of artists.  When Victoria asks me to follow her, I could say no.  I could follow begrudgingly and get mad at her when the end destination is a smeared mess of ChapStick and lotion (recent!).  I could even ignore her, choosing to keep my brush to myself and letting other artists work.  Or I could paint a masterpiece.  I won't know it's a masterpiece while I'm painting it.  I'll need a ton of help to complete it.  Most days it won't feel special or unique, and when I look at other artists and their impressive brushes and amazing skills, I might feel inadequate.  I'll probably get tired, often painting deep into the night or early in the morning with brief rest and few breaks.  Other artists may have a different vision of the final work than I do and I might have to work overtime to minimize their impact.  I'll need to balance my time spent on her canvas with my responsibilities to the other works of art in my life.  And in the end, I'll have to have faith that along the way, as my artwork gradually gives way to her own, she will have learned how to paint and will use her own artistic style to turn our early brushstrokes in to an impressive work of art.  But today, it's back to mixing paints.  Back to my young collection of canvases and art classes.  Back to preparing brushes and painting.  Maybe I'll find the time to step back and look at the works of art in their infancy.  Perhaps I'll even see a glimpse of the final masterpieces.  Back to work.  

Waiting

A couple weeks ago, I found myself sitting in this room, waiting for the doctor to come in and begin the series of pokes and prods in an effort to figure out what was keeping me under the weather for weeks on end.  I've spent plenty of time in doctors' offices through the years, but most of it has been in a suit and tie with a sales aid in my hand.  The last time I saw a physician on account of my own health was about four years ago, and I count myself blessed and lucky to be in that minority.  Nonetheless, on this particular Friday afternoon, I rolled in to the office 15 minutes early (as requested by the staff), checked in, filled out the bevy of forms, and then proceeded to wait...and wait...and wait...and WAIT.  10 minutes.  20 minutes.  35 minutes.  Nothing.  Now, I've spent plenty of time waiting on docs when I'm on company time, but now that I was on MY time, I was becoming a bit less forgiving.  Finally, I decided I'd had enough and I opened the door and starting wandering down the hallway, looking for someone to complain to.  When I found the medical assistant who checked me in and monitored my blood pressure (slightly elevated - I'm sure the caffeine has nothing to do with that), I asked her in my most polite voice if it was still going to be awhile.  Her stunned, somewhat confused look indicated that she didn't realize I had been waiting this long, and so began her series of apologies and an effort to locate the doc.  We walked back toward the room I had been in and stopped just across the hall, where the doctor was sitting in her chair, dictating chart notes in to her digital recorder.  The MA informed her that she had a patient waiting, and yet again, a look of sheer bewilderment.  "I do?  I didn't realize anyone was waiting."  Nice.  Glad these guys are communicating so well.  We wandered back to the treatment room, and 15 minutes later I was out of there and on my way home.

Waiting is hard.  Sometimes really hard.  I occasionally find myself looking around at the chaos and insanity that surrounds me with 4 kids and a busy life and I think back to the days that became months and then years of waiting to have children join our family.  Such a struggle to understand why something so good that we both wanted was being held from us for what felt like centuries.  There was the waiting for college to be complete, jobs to be offered, and children to arrive.  Waiting for a house to call home, loans to be paid, and burdens to be lifted.  And yet, as I sit here today in the midst of it all, I'm comforted by the fact that there is happiness to be found in waiting.  Active waiting.  The kind of waiting that couples patience with action.  The kind of waiting that sends us out to the hallway to make things happen, instead of sitting on our hands, cursing our fate and wondering at the world's ineptitude.

In his talk entitled "Waiting on the Road to Damascus," President Uchtdorf artistically described active waiting:

One dear sister had been a faithful member of the Church all her life. But she carried a personal sorrow. Years before, her daughter had died after a short illness, and the wounds from this tragedy still haunted her. She agonized over the profound questions that accompany an event such as this. She frankly admitted that her testimony wasn’t what it used to be. She felt that unless the heavens parted for her, she would never be able to believe again. 

So she found herself waiting.

There are many others who, for different reasons, find themselves waiting on the road to Damascus. They delay becoming fully engaged as disciples. They hope to receive the priesthood but hesitate to live worthy of that privilege. They desire to enter the temple but delay the final act of faith to qualify. They remain waiting for the Christ to be given to them like a magnificent Carl Bloch painting—to remove once and for all their doubts and fears.

The truth is, those who diligently seek to learn of Christ eventually will come to know Him. They will personally receive a divine portrait of the Master, although it most often comes in the form of a puzzle—one piece at a time. Each individual piece may not be easily recognizable by itself; it may not be clear how it relates to the whole. Each piece helps us to see the big picture a little more clearly. Eventually, after enough pieces have been put together, we recognize the grand beauty of it all. Then, looking back on our experience, we see that the Savior had indeed come to be with us—not all at once but quietly, gently, almost unnoticed.

It's hard to think of waiting as anything resembling active.  The mere mention of the word sends shivers down spines, as it represents the antithesis to today's instant gratification mindset.  Everything is available soon if we want it and presently if we're willing to pay the "Download Now" fee.  The trick, it seems, is to lengthen our perspective and quicken our feet.  Wait yet keep moving.  See the beauty of the developing mural even as we find ourselves toiling away mixing colors and working in the most remote corner of the room.  Perhaps it's in enjoying ordinary that we find the extraordinary.

For every Paul, for every Enos, and for every King Lamoni, there are hundreds and thousands of people who find the process of repentance much more subtle, much more imperceptible. Day by day they move closer to the Lord, little realizing they are building a godlike life. They live quiet lives of goodness, service, and commitment. They are like the Lamanites, who the Lord said "were baptized with fire and with the Holy Ghost, and they knew it not" (Benson, "A Mighty Change of Heart," Ensign, October 1989).

True to the Faith

I remember through the years hearing my Mom talk about the Prophet whom she felt the closest to personally as being the one who was in his calling during her formative adult years.  For me, that was President Hinckley.  He became the President of the Church when I was 17 and he was in this role until his death in 2008, the year I turned 30.  I don't believe I can think of a person for whom I've had more respect and admiration than President Hinckley.  His demeanor, his sense of humor, his dedication to the work, and his love for the Gospel and all the Saints were incredible to behold.  I can't think of anyone who better exemplified the meaning of the phrase "True to the Faith" than President Hinckley.  

Jeri and I were asked to speak in church this past Sunday, and my assigned topic was none other than True to the Faith.  Here's what I came up with (I took out the introduction since it didn't fit here so well...).

This year, as in years past, NBC has come under some scrutiny for the tape-delayed coverage of the Olympics, as opposed to showing events live.  One of the reasons for this tape-delay, beyond the obvious financial implications of prime time advertising, is to give the NBC team the chance to string together their athlete vignettes and tell some of the stories behind the athletes.  As cheesy and over-the-top as some of these vignettes are, we always enjoy hearing the stories of sacrifice and self-denial of these unique and gifted athletes as they work toward their Olympic dreams.  While there were many great stories that came out of this year’s Olympics in London, including Michael Phelps adding 8 more Olympic swimming medals to bring his Olympic total to 22, I’d like to turn back the hands of time and share the story of Eric Liddell.  Some of you may have heard of Eric if you’ve seen the film Chariots of Fire.

Eric was a Scotsman who was born in China while his parents were serving as Christian missionaries.  He was sent home at age 6 to attend a boarding school for the children of missionaries, and he spent the early years of his life honing his athletic skills and sharing his Christian beliefs.  He became the captain of both the cricket and the rugby teams, but his athletic success never overtook him, as his school headmaster described him as “entirely without vanity.”  In spite of his rugby and cricket success though, it was the 100-meter sprint where he truly excelled.  Liddell enrolled at the University of Edinburgh and quickly became known as the fastest person in Scotland, with many believing him to be a possible winner at the upcoming 1924 Olympics in Paris.  He was able to qualify for the British Olympic team, but when it was announced that the preliminary heats for the 100 would be run on a Sunday, Liddell declined – in spite of pressure from the Prince of Wales and the British Olympic Committee – due to his deep Christian convictions.  He trained instead for the 400-meter race, and while he was not considered a favorite due to his training as a sprinter, he was still given a spot on the British team.  When the day of the race came, a member of the American team slipped him a note that quoted 1 Samuel 2:30: “For them that honor me, I will honor.”  Inspired by the Biblical verse and the music he heard as he walked in to the stadium that day, Liddell not only competed, but he won the 400 meter race and set both Olympic and world records. 

In the glow of his success and with a future sure to include fame and fortune, Liddell remained humble and true to his faith.  He ran in only a few more competitive races after the Olympics and at age 23, he returned to China to embark on his missionary service.  Liddell spent the next 18 years of his life building schools, teaching young people, and sharing his faith.  On one occasion he was asked if he ever regretted his decision to leave behind the fame and glory of athletics.  Liddell responded, "It's natural for a chap to think over all that sometimes, but I'm glad I'm at the work I'm engaged in now. A fellow's life counts for far more at this than the other."

After 16 years as a missionary, life in China became very dangerous due to the tensions between Japan and China, and Eric sent his wife and three children to Canada to stay with her family.  He, however, remained behind to support a rural mission station where his brother was a physician.  In 1943, after 2 years at the mission station, Liddell and his fellow missionaries were detained at a Japanese internment camp, and he spent the last two years of his life being a leader and an organizer in the camp, teaching Bible classes, arranging games, and supporting the youth.  In a book written about members of the camp by a fellow prisoner, the following was said about Liddell:

Often in an evening I would see him bent over a chessboard or a model boat, or directing some sort of square dance – absorbed, weary and interested, pouring all of himself into this effort to capture the imagination of these penned-up youth. He was overflowing with good humour and love for life, and with enthusiasm and charm. It is rare indeed that a person has the good fortune to meet a saint, but he came as close to it as anyone I have ever known.

Liddell passed away in February of 1945 due to an inoperable brain tumor, just 5 months prior to the liberation of the entire internment camp.  In 2008, the Chinese government revealed that Liddell had passed up an opportunity to be released from the camp and gave his place to a pregnant woman. (Material found on Wikipedia).

Liddell’s life can be summed up in the words of a familiar hymn:

True to the faith that our parents have cherished.

True to the truth for which martyrs have perished.

To God’s command, soul, heart, and hand,

Faithful and true we will ever stand.

What is the faith that our parents have cherished?  How can we be true to the truth for which martyrs have perished?  In an April 2006 General Conference address, President Thomas S. Monson expounded on the meaning of the phrase, “True to the Faith” by relating an experience he had while on an assignment in Tonga.  He said:

Many years ago, on an assignment to the beautiful islands of Tonga, I was privileged to visit our Church school, the Liahona High School, where our youth are taught by teachers with a common bond of faith—providing training for the mind and preparation for life. On that occasion, entering one classroom, I noticed the rapt attention the children gave their native instructor. His textbook and theirs lay closed upon the desks. In his hand he held a strange-appearing fishing lure fashioned from a round stone and large seashells. This, I learned, was a maka-feke, an octopus lure. In Tonga, octopus meat is a delicacy.

The teacher explained that Tongan fishermen glide over a reef, paddling their outrigger canoes with one hand and dangling the maka-feke over the side with the other. An octopus dashes out from its rocky lair and seizes the lure, mistaking it for a much-desired meal. So tenacious is the grasp of the octopus and so firm is its instinct not to relinquish the precious prize that fishermen can flip it right into the canoe.

It was an easy transition for the teacher to point out to the eager and wide-eyed youth that the evil one—even Satan—has fashioned so-called maka-fekes with which to ensnare unsuspecting persons and take possession of their destinies.

Today we are surrounded by the maka-fekes which the evil one dangles before us and with which he attempts to entice us and then to ensnare us. Once grasped, such maka-fekes are ever so difficult—and sometimes nearly impossible—to relinquish. To be safe, we must recognize them for what they are and then be unwavering in our determination to avoid them. (Monson, “True to the Faith,” April 2006 General Conference.)

Through the remainder of his talk, President Monson goes on to list a number of the maka-fekes we face in our time, including immorality, pornography, drugs, alchohol, and others.  Surely one aspect of being True to the Faith is avoiding the blatant sins of commission that can so easily lead to pain, regret, broken relationships, and addiction.  Our leaders have warned us throughout the latter days to avoid these sins as we would avoid the plague.  President Hinckley used another analogy to help us understand the dangerous and caustic effects these sins of commission can have on our lives:

Years ago I had responsibility for our work in Asia. I visited Okinawa many times when there were American servicemen stationed there in large numbers. Some of them had cars, and I noted that most of those cars were badly rusted. There were holes in the fenders. There were holes in the side panels. Whatever paint was left was dull. All of this was the result of corrosive ocean salt which was carried by the wind and which ate through the metal.

[Sin] is much like this corrosive salt. It will eat through your armor if you expose yourselves to it. (Hinckley, “True to the Faith,” Ensign, June 1996.)

I love that analogy. Corrosion, for those of us who aren’t so scientifically gifted, is a process by which a material, usually metal, is gradually destroyed through chemical interactions with the environment. Listen to the following explanation of corrosion:

Because corrosion is a diffusion-controlled process, it occurs on exposed surfaces. Corrosion degrades the useful properties of materials and structures including strength, appearance and permeability to liquids and gases.  Some metals are more intrinsically resistant to corrosion than others, and there are various ways of protecting metals from corrosion, including painting, hot dip galvanizing, and combinations of these. (Wikipedia, “Corrosion”)

Like corrosion, sins of commission often occur when we expose ourselves to dangerous elements.  Sin degrades our strength and appearance and makes our minds and souls less permeable to the influence of the Holy Ghost.  But, like protecting metal from corrosion, there are ways to protect ourselves and our families from the vices of sin.  One key form of protection from sins of commission is found in avoiding sins of omission and keeping ourselves anxiously engaged in good causes.  I’d like to spend the remaining few minutes I have discussing three of these good causes we should anxiously engage ourselves in – “The Three Ps” – and how each can keep us and our families true to our faith.  These Three Ps were originally directed toward Priesthood holders but they are applicable to us all throughout various stages of our lives.

1. Provide: Regardless of where we are in life, we should ask ourselves the question: “What type of home do I want to provide for my family?”  President Eyring asked himself this question at an early age.

When I was eleven, my parents dropped me off at the Salt Lake City home of my great uncle Gaskell Romney. He was a patriarch and, because he was my father’s uncle, he could give me, a boy from the mission field, a patriarchal blessing. I don’t think he even sat down to visit with me. He didn’t know me except as my father’s son. He just led me through the house to a room where a recording device was on a table. He sat me down facing a fireplace, put his hands on my head, and began to give first my lineage and then a blessing.

He began to tell me about the home in which I would someday be the father. That’s when I opened my eyes. I know the stones in the fireplace were there because I began to stare at them. I wondered, “How can this man know what is only in my heart?” He described in concrete detail what had been only a yearning; but I could recognize it. It was the desire of my heart, that future home and family that I thought was secret. But it was not secret, because God knew. (Eyring, “Come Unto Christ”, BYU Devotional, 1989.)

Does God know what type of home we want to provide for our families?  When we hear the term provide, our thoughts often turn to things financial and material.  Other necessities in a gospel-centered home could include teaching our children the importance of tithing, showing them the value of service, demonstrating patience, modeling a strong work ethic, and teaching how to keep and live within a budget.  Possibly most important among the items we might provide is our dedicated, undivided time.  President Uchtdorf noted the importance of focusing our time on the most important priorities in life:

My dear brothers and sisters, we would do well to slow down a little, proceed at the optimum speed for our circumstances, focus on the significant, lift up our eyes, and truly see the things that matter most. Let us be mindful of the foundational precepts our Heavenly Father has given to His children that will establish the basis of a rich and fruitful mortal life with promises of eternal happiness. Since “no other success can compensate for failure” here, we must place high priority on our families. We build deep and loving family relationships by doing simple things together, like family dinner and family home evening and by just having fun together. In family relationships love is really spelled t-i-m-e, time. Taking time for each other is the key for harmony at home. (Uchtdorf, “Of Things That Matter Most.,” October 2012 General Conference.)

Protect: The second of the Three Ps is Protect.  President Monson relates the following story:

Early in my service as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, I was attending a conference in the Monument Park West Stake in Salt Lake City. My companion for the conference was a member of the General Church Welfare Committee, Paul C. Child.

When it was his opportunity to participate, President Child took the Doctrine and Covenants and left the pulpit to stand among the priesthood to whom he was directing his message. He turned to section 18 and began to read: “Remember the worth of souls is great in the sight of God. … And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!”

President Child then raised his eyes from the scriptures and asked the question of the priesthood brethren: “What is the worth of a human soul?” He avoided calling on a bishop, stake president, or high councilor for a response. Instead, he selected the president of an Elders Quorum—a brother who had been a bit drowsy and had missed the significance of the question.

The startled man responded: “Brother Child, could you please repeat the question?” The question was repeated: “What is the worth of a human soul?” I knew President Child’s style. I prayed fervently for that quorum president. He remained silent for what seemed like an eternity and then declared, “Brother Child, the worth of a human soul is its capacity to become as God.” (Monson, “Tears, Trial, Trust, Testimony,” Ensign, September 1997.)

As parents, grandparents, or members of any family, ours is the responsibility to protect these precious souls and the sanctity and safety of our homes – and just as providing isn’t solely monetary, protecting isn’t strictly about ensuring physical safety from harm or accident.  Of far greater importance is protection from outside influences that seek to destroy the family and all that we hold dear.  During my mission, Elder Gene R. Cook, a member of the Western Europe Area Presidency at the time, shared his testimony of the importance of protecting our families from these influences and of just how hard Satan is working to spread his deadly influence.  Elder Cook was on a flight to Mexico and soon realized that he was seated next to Mick Jagger, the lead singer of the Rolling Stones.  In Elder Cook’s words:

After we visited back and forth a minute or two about what we were doing and all, I finally said something like, "You know, Mick, I have a question for you that I'd like you to answer for me."

He said, "Well, I'll be glad to try."

Then I said to him, "I have opportunity to be with young people in many different places around the world, and some of them have told me that the kind of music you and others like you sing has no effect on them, that it's okay, and that it doesn't affect them adversely in any way. Then other young people have told me very honestly that your kind of music has a real effect on them for evil and that it affects them in a very bad way. You've been in this business a long time, Mick. I'd like to know your opinion. What do you think is the impact of your music on the young people?"

[He turned to me and] said, "Our music is calculated to drive the kids to sex."

He quickly added, "Well, it's not my fault what they do. That's up to them. I'm just making a lot of money." Then he told me he'd been in Mexico making a video because he could make it for about one third of what it would cost in the United States. He told me this was a great day for them because now instead of just having audio where they could portray some of what they wanted to, they now had videos and could have the people both hear it and see it portrayed. He said this would have much more impact on the youth, that his music was selling much more, and thus he was making much more money.

He told me that it didn't matter what you did in life, that you could take whatever you wanted, and you could do whatever you wanted. He said there were no commandments, there was no God, and nothing really mattered. He indicated there was no judgment day and you could just do whatever you felt like doing. (Cook, “Morality,” Ricks College Devotional, 1989.)

Brothers and Sisters, the need to protect ourselves and our families is real and the dangers are imminent.  There has never been a time nor a day when the need to conduct regular Family Home Evenings, family prayer, and scripture study has been greater. 

Preside: Finally, the third of the Three Ps is Preside.  While fathers play a unique and important role in presiding as patriarchs over their families, each of us has a responsibility to preside over our own lives, to own and be responsible for our thoughts, our words, and our deeds.  Are we living up to this responsibility?  Do the mirrors of our lives reflect behavior worthy of our divine nature and privilege?  In his April 2011 General Conference address, President Uchtdorf illustrated this point beautifully:

There once was a man whose lifelong dream was to board a cruise ship and sail the Mediterranean Sea. He dreamed of walking the streets of Rome, Athens, and Istanbul. He saved every penny until he had enough for his passage. Since money was tight, he brought an extra suitcase filled with cans of beans, boxes of crackers, and bags of powdered lemonade, and that is what he lived on every day.

He would have loved to take part in the many activities offered on the ship—working out in the gym, playing miniature golf, and swimming in the pool. He envied those who went to movies, shows, and cultural presentations. And, oh, how he yearned for only a taste of the amazing food he saw on the ship—every meal appeared to be a feast! But the man wanted to spend so very little money that he didn’t participate in any of these. He was able to see the cities he had longed to visit, but for the most part of the journey, he stayed in his cabin and ate only his humble food.

On the last day of the cruise, a crew member asked him which of the farewell parties he would be attending. It was then that the man learned that not only the farewell party but almost everything on board the cruise ship—the food, the entertainment, all the activities—had been included in the price of his ticket. Too late the man realized that he had been living far beneath his privileges. (Uchtdorf, “Your Potential, Your Privilege,” April 2011 General Conference.”)

When we proactively preside over our own lives and the lives of those we love, we will likely face challenges and trials that seem insurmountable.  Often it may feel like we are carrying the weight of the world on our shoulders.  Perhaps it is in carrying this weight, however, that we are crafted and sculpted into the divine beings our Savior has created us to become.  An old story is told of a Hindu convert to Christianity, Sadhu Sundar Singh, who became a missionary to his people in India.

Late one afternoon Sadhu was traveling on foot through the Himalayas with a Buddhist monk. It was bitterly cold and the wind felt like sharp blades slicing into their skins. Night was fast approaching when the monk warned Sadhu that they were in danger of freezing to death if they did not reach the monastery before darkness fell.

Suddenly, on a narrow path above a steep precipice, they heard a cry for help. At the foot of the cliff lay a man, fallen and badly hurt. The monk looked at Sadhu and said, "Do not stop. God has brought this man to his fate. He must work it out for himself. Let us hurry on before we, too, perish."

But Sadhu replied, "God has sent me here to help my brother. I cannot abandon him."

The monk continued trudging off through the whirling snow, while the missionary clambered down the steep embankment. The injured man's leg was broken and he could not walk, so Sadhu made a sling of his blanket and tied the man on his back. With great difficulty he climbed back up the cliff, drenched by now in perspiration.

Doggedly, Sadhu made his way through the deepening snow and darkness. It was all he could do to follow the path. But he persevered, though faint with fatigue and overheated from exertion. Finally, he saw ahead the lights of the monastery.

Then, for the first time, Sadhu stumbled and nearly fell. But not from weakness. He had stumbled over an object lying in the snow-covered road. Slowly he bent down on one knee and brushed the snow off the object. It was the body of the monk, frozen to death.

Years later a disciple of Sadhu's asked him, "What is life's most difficult task?"

Without hesitation Sadhu replied: "To have no burden to carry." (http://www.sermonillustrator.org/illustrator/sermon2a/having_no_burden_to_carry.htm)

Brothers and Sisters, we do have burdens to carry, and thanks be to God for it.  Ours are the burdens to provide for ourselves and our families, to protect them from the adversary, and to preside in righteousness over our lives.  How grateful we should be for these burdens and the opportunities they give us to show the Lord where we stand.  In closing, I share a final story that was told by Elder Spencer J. Condie of the Quorum of the Seventy.  Brother Taniela Wakolo was a Stake President at the time and Elder Condie was assigned to fly to Fiji and call Brother Wakolo as a new Area Authority.  Here's the rest of the story, which was published in the Ensign magazine: 

After discussing with him the nature and duties of his new calling, I observed the tattoo on Brother Wakolo’s large right hand.  Now, tattoos are very common throughout the South Pacific, and long before he joined the Church, Taniela Wakolo had the back of his hand tattooed with a large, garish design.  I said: "Brother Wakolo, in your new calling as an Area Seventy, you are going to be speaking to the youth on many occasions.  I would suggest before such meetings that you put a large Band-Aid on the back of your hand to cover your tattoo.  It’s hard to discourage our youth from getting tattoos when the speaker has one himself."  He smiled a broad smile, and with a radiant expression he said, "I’ll take care of it. I want to be a good example."  A few weeks passed, and the next time we met, his hand was heavily bandaged as if he were preparing for a boxing match.  I asked, "What in the world happened to you?"  He smiled with glistening eyes and said, "I followed your counsel and had the tattoo removed."  "Was it laser surgery?" I asked.  "No," he replied with a big smile, "they don’t remove tattoos with lasers in Fiji. I had it surgically cut out."  A month later Elder Wakolo and I were assigned together to reorganize a stake presidency in American Samoa.  As we met at the airport, I immediately noticed an unsightly scar on the back of his hand where the surgeon had removed several square inches of skin and then very crudely sutured the gaping wound closed.  This had not been performed by a plastic surgeon.  I apologized for having been the cause of the large scar on the back of his hand.  He responded with a radiant Christlike countenance: "Not to worry, President Condie; this is my CTR ring. Now the Lord knows where I stand! I’ll do anything the Lord asks of me."

True to the faith that our parents have cherished.  True to the truth for which martyrs have perished.  To God’s command, soul, heart, and hand, faithful and true we will ever stand.  May we remain true to the faith and show the Lord where we stand in all we do.

Just Show Up

Jim Rome and I have become good friends over the past 10 years.  Of course, I've never met the guy, but I've heard enough of his rants, takes, burns, and guest interviews over the years to feel a connection with him that I'm sure he only shares with a few million other people.  I appreciate his candor, his uncanny wittiness, his fresh takes on the world of sports and entertainment, and mostly his phenomenal preparation for and execution of interviews.  He really is a master at conducting thorough, thoughtful, insightful interviews with a great variety of guests, some at the top of their popularity and others who just have great stories that deserve to be told.  I'm actually not sure how I would make it through the hours I spend on the road without the company of The Jim Rome Show.  I've been a card-carrying Jungle Insider ("That's why there's Jungle Insider") for 8 years and I thank A.D. Davis, my sales partner with Lilly in Albuquerque back in 2002, for introducing me to the show.

This week, one of the guests was Jacob Tamme, a former Colts tight end from Lexington, KY who recently re-joined Peyton Manning in signing with the Denver Broncos.  Tamme has always been a good player, never a star, but a solid tight end who, like Austin Collie, Dallas Clark, and a host of others, has been the beneficiary of catching passes from one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time.  Rome asked him the requisite questions about football, his time with the Colts, what it's like to play with Peyton Manning, how the Broncos will fare this year, etc.  He then switched gears to ask Tamme about his recent visit to the hospital in Aurora, CO, where many of the victims of the recent movie theater shooting are being treated.  Jacob and a number of his teammates recently visited some of the victims and Jim asked him to relate this experience to the audience.  He shared some of the heroic stories he heard, told about a few of the courageous people he met, and talked about how inspirational it was for him to speak with people who had risked their lives to save others in the midst of the chaos that ensued that night.  Jim then asked him what, if any, message he shared with the victims and their families.  His response to this question was insightful and was a great truism.  It went something like, "In a situation like that, you don't really know what to say.  But sometimes, just showing up is what matters."  What a powerful lesson.  We don't always know what to say in times of tragedy or challenge, and words can seem trite and lacking.  I remember when President Pace, our great Stake President in Newbury Park, lost his wife at far too young an age.  I was sitting with him in a PPI not long after the funeral and in the middle of the discussion, he broke down in tears.  What do you say in a situation like that?  I knew that no words I could muster would lighten the burden he bore, so I just sat and listened to him share some of the things that had been on his mind in the few weeks since his wife's passing.  When he was done and we had wrapped up the interview, he hugged me and thanked me for listening and being supportive...and I really hadn't said anything.  I just showed up where I was supposed to be and that was enough.

So many of the best things in life are within our grasp if we just show up.  Some of the greatest views, such as the one in the picture from Haleakala on Maui, are only seen if we rise early and make the trek to the top of the mountain.  The blessings that stem from service, church attendance, exercise, education, and gainful employment are within our grasp if we just show up.  I can only speculate, but I'm sure President Monson didn't always have something new or insightful to share each time he visited the 83 widows in his East Salt Lake Ward as a young Bishop.  He just showed up consistently and provided friendship and a listening ear.  

This year has already been full of opportunities where just showing up is enough.  How am I doing?

Truth

Last night I was sitting in a hotel room in Walnut Creek (Marriott, of course) working on a Mid-year Review for one of the reps on my team when Jeri called with some disturbing news via the source of all disturbing news in 2012, Facebook.  Based on some status updates and 15 "Likes" that were posted on Jeri's wall, it appeared that a dear friend and mentor of mine was going through a divorce.  I immediately logged on to Jeri's account (since I deleted mine a few months ago...long story) to confirm what she had read and was sad to see that this was indeed the case.  I had the feeling that I should send him a quick text to offer my friendship and see if there was anything I could do for him.  Within 30 seconds of clicking Send on my iPhone 4 (black with Cardinals cover), the same phone was ringing and his name was on the Caller ID.  I picked up the call and for the next 30 minutes, I found myself in the midst of a very sad yet uplifting discussion with him as he related the events of the last 15 years of his life and the travails and trials that led to his divorce.  It seems that his wife had cheated on him many years ago and that she had made it clear to him that she wasn't happy in their marriage.  They had seen counselors, talked with their Bishop, and made many efforts to keep their marriage together and they were successful for quite some time.  Unfortunately, about a year ago, she came to him and re-affirmed the fact that she wasn't happy in the marriage and wanted out.  Since then, she made the decision to leave the church, move in with her boyfriend, and alienate most of her family, including her three grown children and her grandchildren.  As I listened to him relate this story, my thoughts turned to a license plate rim I recently came across that said "Nothing is True.  Everything is Permitted."  When I first saw this message, I thought about the many conversations I have had through the years with people about the church and the gospel.  I thought specifically about how many times I've heard a version of the phrase, "You have to find what's true for you."  This message, the thought that nothing is true and that everything is permitted, might as well include the standard election disclaimer, "My name is Satan, and I approve of this message."  Find what's true for you?  3 + 3 isn't 6 for me and 7 for someone else.  Either my computer monitor is sitting in front of me or it's not, and in the end, either God exists or He doesn't, just like The Book of Mormon says. 

And if ye shall say there is no law, ye shall also say there is no sin.  If ye shall say there is no sin, ye shall also say there is no righteousness.  And if there be no righteousness there be no happiness.  And if there be no righteousness nor happiness there be no punishment nor misery.  And if these things are not there is no God.  And if there is no God we are not, neither the earth; for there could have been no creation of things, neither to act nor to be acted upon; wherefore all things must have vanished away.  -  2 Nephi 2:13

I must admit that the thought has crossed my mind before.  What if there were no rules?  What if there was no truth, if everything was permitted, if there was no God?  There have certainly been times in my life when it would have been much easier to give in to this belief and let my conscience off the hook.  My friend's wife left the church, her husband to whom she was sealed for 30 years, her family, and everything she once believed.  Did she decide that nothing is true?  Did she start to believe that everything is permitted?

During those hardest of hard times when it would have been easier to move to New Orleans and become a street jazz player, the reality that kept me going is that TRUTH is TRUTH.  I know that God lives.  I know that the Gospel is true, and I know that God knows that I know it is true.  

And now, my sons, I speak unto you these things for your profit and learning; for there is a God, and he hath created al things, both the heavens and the earth, and all things that in them are, both things to act and things to be acted upon.  -  2 Nephi 2:14

The truth is that God lives, and whether we choose to accept that truth or not doesn't change the fact that it is the truth.  My friend's wife made a choice and the hard truth is that her choice, like all significant choices in life, will have lasting consequences for her.  


The truth is that I need to go to bed, and the fact that I'm sitting here blogging at 2:15 am on a work night will have dire consequences.  Good night!


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