Beautiful Things

I'm writing today because I feel especially appreciative of the beauty in my life. There are a couple things that have made me feel this way:

First, a beautiful story. A lovely girl, haunted by a series of events and a kind boy who was patient enough to earn her love, and when the time came, to risk losing her to give her the happiness she had always deserved, to free her so she could be the woman she was always meant to be. A story about how we go on after tragedy changes our lives. We are never the same, but we can be beautiful again--scarred things can be lovely, and scarred people can smile in a way that is more striking than the cleanest, prettiest flower garden. Why? Because in their eyes, we can see the wisdom that their trials have afforded us, and it touches something inside of us.  It's also a story about how the universe affords us miracles at rare, clear, fortunate moments.

Second, a heartwarming reunion. An old friend in a time that was difficult for me. At first we danced around our acquaintance, unable to remember how we'd met, only sure that we knew bizarrely personal things about each other. Realization dawned and so did sweet happiness. He is now married to the girl, and I am married to the boy, and life is sometimes so achingly lovely that my heart feels it will break. I could see the happiness in his eyes, a far cry from the despair and weight that I saw in them last. I wish that everyone in the world could be as happy as possible, as happy as he has managed to be. There is much to rejoice over that we don't even see in our lives. I got a glimpse of that little bit today.

Third, a midnight hug. I woke up last night after a tense dream in which I was hurt by someone close to me. Dreams like these are difficult for me and happen more frequently than I'd like to admit. I lay there whimpering and struggling to breath normally, when suddenly a warm weight wrapped itself around me and my heart slowly began to unclench itself. He was still asleep, I'm sure, but simply having his warm arms around me took away my sadness and filled my soul with a soft, grateful feeling that has stuck with me all day. He is the companion of my heart, and I never knew I could be so safe and content until I found myself wrapped up in a lovely, happy life by his side. The security and joy we share is enough to overpower the fear and difficulties we face.

Fourth, a lovely poetry book, and some lovely quotes.

Invisible

This campus is enormous.

Sometimes...I feel like I'm completely unseen. Like I could twirl and dance and shout, but no one would see or hear. Like I could tumble to the ground dead and no one would stop walking, no one would even slow down to look at me.

Sometimes I feel like...no matter what I wear, no matter how I fix my hair, no matter if I spend two or twenty minutes on my makeup, it doesn't make a difference. No one will look at me any different. No one will remember my face.

Sometimes I feel.....invisible walking through the hordes of students making their way to classes and jobs and meetings with friends and peers. I feel lost in all the thoughts, swirling around in the wind.

Does he like me? 
Did I forget to turn in that assignment due today? 
I hope I did well on that test. 
I don't know how we're going to afford this baby. 
It was really embarrassing when my professor caught me on Facebook in class today. 
Hopefully my grandma is okay.
My roommate is a jerk.
Should I go on a mission?

They swallow me up. There are so many people on this campus, wrapped up in their lives. Some of them seem to wander around, unsure of where they're going, unsure of what they're doing. Some of them never move without a purpose, always thinking about the destination, always thinking about the next task ahead of them.

Among all of the thoughts and troubles and people around me, I feel small and insignificant. It makes it hard sometimes for me to walk with purpose. It makes it hard sometimes for me to look ahead to my destination. It makes it hard sometimes for me to remember all of the things that I'm supposed to be doing next. It makes it hard sometimes for me to wake up in the morning, to crawl out of bed, choose my clothes, do my hair, put on makeup.

I have this fantasy of simply standing still in the middle of a crowd of people. I'm standing in place while they all walk around me. Shoulders brush mine, backpacks bumping into my arms, strings of conversation floating past my ears, the rustling of coats and shoes and pants around me. I could raise my arms above my head, reach my hands to the sky and simply look up. No one would stop. I would be nothing more than a small rock in a great stream of water flowing down a mountain.

I have this vision of myself walking through a crowd, surrounded by a white bubble. It moves with me. People move around it without a second glance at me. It's almost cruel; it isolates me while giving me a glimpse of what I'm isolated from.

The things I struggle with weigh on my mind as I walk every day. I spend so much time walking. I spend so much time thinking. I spend so much time around people feeling alone. I feel lonely and empty, but at the same time so incredibly full. Full of words, of emotion, of sadness and missing things. I feel so full of all of this experience and knowledge, but at the same time I feel that there's something struggling to put itself in the reach of my arms. I sometimes wonder if I know what it is, other times I don't.

Don't think that I'm not happy with my life. I am. I am immeasurably happy with my family, the Gospel, my schooling, my home, my husband, especially. I can't deny that. I am terribly blessed and I am very aware of it, and very grateful for it.

But that doesn't change my feelings. I still feel small and sad and lonely and invisible. It's difficult to concentrate or feel motivated. The weight of feeling so utterly unseen presses on my heart, so heavy. I feel fragile and breakable and thin.

And then, like a fairy-tale but so much calmer, I feel bathed in a warm light that covers me, and me alone. I know that I'm not unseen. I know that I'm not invisible. I may be small and sad sometimes, but I am not alone.

Christ is with me.

And that feels like a warm blanket and a cup of hot chocolate on a rainy day.

the Proof of His Love

If you know anything about me, you know that I have a weird obsession with Christian radio stations. I LOVE them! It brings me a lot of comfort to know that there are people in the world who are doing their best to sing about Christ and the power that it has in our lives.

I was talking to my friend who is preparing for a mission, and she told me something I found really profound. She said that she's most worried about sharing the message of Christ. If someone can take a step towards Christ, she told me that it would be just as satisfying to her as a baptism would be. I agree--though a mission is not in the cards for me right now, I still think that sharing the message of Christ is a beautiful thing. He is the reason that we have hope in this life! He is the reason that we can look forward to our lives after death. He is the beautiful thing that we are walking towards in this life. 

What can I do in my life to help myself better channel His love and incredible message through me?

It was with these thoughts that I found this song. It's by an Australian Christian band called "for King & Country" and it's called "Proof of Your Love." The video initially weirded me out, but after a few seconds, I understood what it was they were doing with it. The song is just beautiful. Listen--come on. It's not like you don't have time (you already clicked on the link to this post). Allow yourself to be uplifted--there is an amazing spirit in their music.

I just...feel so touched by the verses:

"If I sing, 

but don't have love, 

I waste my breath 

with every song 

I bring an empty voice, 

a hollow noise"

"If I give to a needy soul 

but don't have love, 

then who is poor? 

It seems, 

all the poverty 

is found in me."

It's such a visceral image: we are the poor ones if we serve without love. There is no point to our endeavors, the music we make, the art we create, the things we do with our hands, if we don't put our love into them. 

And the part he speaks over the intercom in the video? I think it's a combination of his voice and the spirit of his words, but I get the chills every time.

"If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy, 
but don't love, 
I'm nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate."

There is no point to our lives without love, His and ours.

I have been pondering ways that I can let my life serve as the proof of God's love. After all, when we die, only our love and knowledge will come with us.

Here are a few things that my soon-to-be missionary friend does:

She smiles a lot. Christ's people should be happy. That should be our defining characteristic. It is definitely hers. Her smile really radiates the light of Christ--and she's not shy with it. I doubt she even knows she's smiling so often! But that's why it's so wonderful, because it's not forced or purposeful. She's really THAT happy. 

She takes every opportunity to bring conversation around to God. She doesn't do it on purpose, but everything she says comes back to the influence that Christ has in her life. This is a huge manifestation of God's love in her life: she can't stop talking about it! I appreciate talking with her and watching the Spirit she feels show through her words. Many conversations nowadays end with her testimony, whether it's formally born or not. I think it's magical.

She serves others. It's not anything crazy, but I think that oftentimes the crazy acts of service people do are partly to be recognized. She doesn't do it for that. She will risk being late to work to listen to a friend in need. She brought me a piece of pie for no reason--she was just thinking about me (what she didn't know was that I had six hours left of my day and a terrible hungry feeling in the pit of my stomach). She'll take your plate to the sink, even as a guest in your home. SHE MADE ME BREAKFAST AT MY OWN HOME. She's just thoughtful. The spirit of Christ that she feels produces those small, utterly meaningful acts of service in her every day life.

How can your life be the proof of His love?

Love

Sometimes life is rough on us, and we don't have time to take in all the love that is around us. Some days we are struck with the fullness of that love.

This weekend I have been struck with the fullness of the love inside me and around me.

I feel very overwhelmed by love. Saturday morning we snuggled in bed and read together--Alan's reading Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card, and I'm tackling Mistborn by Brandon Sanderson. It was refreshingly leisured and slow.

Saturday evening we went driving to see what was on the other side of the mountains westward. It was two hours of olives in tupper-ware and sticky maraschino cherries and giggles about bad radio stations. We went over to the nursing home to see Ina, our favorite Alaskan ex-pilot with a strange, fierce love for pigs and Elvis.

Friday night we went to an art museum and the pool. We sat in brightly colored chairs and drank fancy "mock-tails," watching the little boy a table over point and laugh at the saxophone, cello and drum set at the other end of the room. We pulled on our swimsuits and braved the giggles of teenage couples for a few minutes in the hot tub together.

This afternoon we taught the Sunbeams together. We got on our knees and helped them color pictures of fish and water a little plant and eat fruit snacks and pretend to brush our teeth. We giggled together as each of them drenched the fronts of their shirts and dresses trying to reach the drinking fountain. Ah, three year-olds.

I just wanna kiss you in the morning sun,
I just wanna love you when the day is done,
I just wanna hold you just because I can.
I do.
I do.

I just wanna fold you up into my arms,
I just wanna listen to your beating heart,
I just wanna love you just because I do
I do.
I do.

Grammar, Identity, and the Dark Side of the Subjunctive: Phuc Tran

This is a good video with just a few seconds of minor language. It talks about the subjunctive in our language and the way that it might influence our lives for good or bad. It's a surprisingly interesting talk about language and grammar, and it certainly allowed me to look at my life in a different way. The subjunctive is the ability to talk about possibilities and things that have not and did not happen.



When do I let the "dark side" of the subjunctive take away my happiness about the reality of things? When do I let the indicative close my eyes to the creativity and wonder that is the possible future?



My favorite was the very end, when he talks about the most optimistic and pessimistic countries in the world. The most optimistic? Vietnam, which does not have a subjunctive. The most pessimistic? France, which has two subjunctive forms.



What do you think the balance is, in your life personally?

A Baby Experiences Rain for the Very First Time

I hope that I can manage to keep this level of wonder and awe with the world, even if it isn't the first time I've experienced rain. There is so much beauty in this world that God has created for us--I hope that I can always remember that it is a wonderful world.

Even if it's raining.

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."