A Gift of Strength

This is a story that I haven't told to very many people, if any. It's very dear to me, and especially in light of events in this past year, I've been determined to keep it close and secret, just to myself. Now I feel like I should share it.

In High School, I was a music nerd. Not like, a super gifted one, but a music nerd. I did band from my 5th grade year until my Sophomore year. I did choir from my Sophomore to my Senior year. I took a music theory class my Senior year. I got to know the teachers pretty well, I'd say.

We played a piece in band my Sophomore year that I will never forget. It was a musical adaptation of the poem "Do not go Gentle into that Good Night" by Dylan Thomas. My band teacher, Mr. Weed, who I very much respected, though I did not understand him very well, explained to us his reasons for choosing this piece. He said that the piece was really just a musical version of the grieving process. You experience denial and anger and you bargain and accept it. He talked about a death close to him that made him experience that, and with a lot of emotion in his words, he admitted that he couldn't move past the anger. I think a little part of him hoped that when we performed this piece, he would finally be able to let go of the rage that consumed him.

He played a song for us called"Every December Sky" by Beth Nielsen Chapman, that he explained was his ultimate calm-down song. I will never forget that moments between the music starting and stopping, never. In my whole life. After the song finished, he said to us, with considerably emotion-strained voice,

"How heavy the empty heart. 

How light the heart that's full."

I've often thought of that phrase in the years since then. As I continue to grow up, my understanding of it changes. Upon first hearing it, I wondered simply at the paradox. I thought I knew how it felt to carry an empty heart, and I thought I knew what it felt like to have a full heart!

My Senior year, I began to really understand those things. In December, my life came crashing down around me. I mean, don't feel sorry for me, because I did it to myself. But all the same, the things I'd been running from and lying to myself about caught up to me and knocked me flat. I started every day with an empty heart. It was so heavy, sitting there in my chest, making it hard for me to roll out of bed, to eat, to smile, to walk down the halls at school and pretend like I cared about any of it. I didn't. I stopped doing my hair and putting on makeup; most of those cold, winter mornings had me sporting icicles instead of hair and a red nose buried in a scarf. I pulled away from my friends and teachers and myself.

It was during this time that I took my music theory class from Mr. Weed. We talked about music theory sometimes, and most of the time we listened to stories about his college life. I found it hard to smile, though his stories were very funny. We had only one assignment, and that was to write or transcribe a piece of music and then perform it for the class. As I pondered the assignment, my mind often went to that phrase from before,

"How heavy the empty heart.

How light the heart that's full."

And I really wanted to find a way to make my heart light again. I started working on my project, transcribing a piece of music about the Savior and his struggle to belong to a world that didn't want him. It made my heart ache to listen to it over and over to take down those notes, but I felt that I had chosen the right piece.

One day after class, Mr. Weed stopped me. We had not been on great terms since I left band, because I was certain that he found me snobby and stupid. I avoided him in the halls, and wouldn't look him in the eye. But he stopped me on the way out and asked if I was okay. He looked so sincere, and I just lost it. It wasn't the first time during that period of my life that I'd cried that hard, but it was the first time I felt like the emptiness might end. I explained to him a little bit about my situation and then he asked about my song. I told him what it was, (Hero by Abandon) and that I hoped it would help me to find a little bit of the healing I was looking for. I hoped to feel the Savior's struggles--his incredible mission and the burden that it meant for him, the frustration of people that wouldn't accept his help, the sadness and pain. Most of all, however, I wanted to feel the triumph of his rising. I wanted to feel the love behind his resurrection--the joy that could be felt in the words:

"He's not here."

Mr. Weed stood there for a second, just looking at me. But then his eyes got teary, and he put his hand on my shoulder and said:

 "I think that it will. I'm so proud of you, Rachel."

I just. I never. I never expected to see such honesty and sincerity and....caring in his eyes. I knew that he had never been mad at me, I knew that he cared about my well-being, and I knew that he could see the effort I was putting into making myself a better person. In that moment, I needed his belief. I knew that my parents believed in me! They always had. It was the only reason that I got up every morning and kept going.

But seeing his belief helped me to start believing in myself. And I'll never be able to repay him for that. I'll never forget it. I'll never forget the power of believing in someone. With such a simple act, Mr. Weed carried the power and peace of the Atonement to my soul, and allowed me to begin to fill up my heart so that it could be light.

I hope that everyone has someone like that when they need it most. There have been many points in my life where I needed a hand on my shoulder, and belief and caring. I'm grateful that he was there to provide it. I hope that I can "lift up the hands which hang down."

When I feel overwhelmed, like I can't keep trying, I remember Mr. Weed's face, and his simple words "I'm so proud of you, Rachel."