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."

The Hardest Thing to Write About

Someone wise once said "They say the best way out is through (and yes, it was The Fray)." But really? How is there even another way? Life is always, inevitably and irreversibly moving forward without any thought for our feelings. I once read this line from a book, and it made me stop and ponder a moment: "Fate makes no distinction between tragedy and happily ever after." I don't believe in fate, but I do believe in life. I do believe that there is no force that frowns upon the wicked and smiles upon the good. Evil comes to all of us. If we're going somewhere, we'll get there, and there's no stopping the bumps along the way. If I were to have said that line, I would have said "The road of life bears no distinction between tragedy and happily ever after." Because the simple fact of it is, if we are meant to feel pain, to head towards a sorrowful destination, we will. We really will.

I don't like to talk about when I was younger and unsure of myself, at least not in any substantial way. I talk about my hair back then, my third grade teacher, my reaction to 9/11, my favorite food, but I never talk about the currents of my life at that point. I've never been brave enough to do it. I don't feel very brave tonight, but I feel like I need to try, so I'm trying.

Among the many memories of my life, there just isn't one of my parents telling me that they were getting a divorce. I don't remember sitting down and hearing about it. I suppose if there was a moment like that, it wasn't surprising news once I understood the words involved. I'd already started closing myself off before that, I think. I don't really know. I just know that between my second and third grade years, my life changed, and I changed. I think when we're older, unsavory events hold a bigger impact in our minds because we have a greater capacity and understanding to make sense of them. It's only now that I'm older that I have been able to see the small ways that my life was changed. My third grade year was quiet and timid, characterized by a small little girl who felt like everyone was looking at her with disdain in their eyes, who leaned her head down on her desk when they announced the attack on the Twin Towers because she couldn't understand why she was feeling so sad, who lost a dad to something she didn't understand, a mom to a job because of that mystery something and herself to emotions she didn't understand. I wanted to make friends that year really badly, but I felt like there was an invisible cord wrapped around my ribs, squeezing them tight when I tried to work up the courage to speak. I cuddled my sister at night, not sure what to do with the hurt and guilt in my heart. I didn't know how to let it out and make it go away.

But I guess the real pain of it came as I grew up and had to live with the repercussions of it. There were times when I felt so lost. I'd stand in the doorway between two halves of my life--one that I wished I could keep forever and one that I wished would disappear while I blinked--and I'd feel the two halves of my soul squeezing in each direction. On the one hand, I had a beautiful family, a miracle Mother, and a Father who was certainly always supposed to be mine. They loved me and I loved them, and the happiness I felt with them was enough to make me feel so whole I could burst. On the other hand, I had a man who walked out of my life, who repeatedly rejected me, who insisted on turning me against those that loved me, who made me feel small, and who never loved me at all, I sometimes feared. It was the last part that hurt my heart so. If I couldn't make the man who was supposed to be my father love me, even if I had been given a Father who really did love me (and I've never doubted that he does), what good was I?

Every time he called, I'd seize up inside with panic. I wanted him to love me, but I knew that he didn't. I knew that I shouldn't care. I was torn between the want and the fear and the anger. Days like that usually ended in me twisting up all the feelings and shoving them down my own throat to fester in my stomach. Sometimes it ended in tears, in words I couldn't and still can't find, in shouts that hurt me worse than anything else. I just, I didn't like feeling so small and so hurt, so mostly I just hid those down as best as I could. I still do that, I think.

When I graduated from High School, he called. That was the last time we talked, and the conversation never really ended properly. When I got married, I deliberated quite a bit about sending an invitation. I didn't want to. The hurt and anger I feel towards him...wouldn't allow it. But I did it. I sent him one. I waited on edge, though I'd never tell anyone, to receive any sort of reply to it. I didn't want to talk to him, but I wanted him to care, to try, to congratulate me, or even to feel sad that he'd had no part in this changing of my life. A big part of me just wanted to move through this, the happiest chapter of my life, without any interference, without a reminder of the pain that I still felt. Instead of any of that, I got his invitation back in the mail three weeks after the wedding, and a lot of harsh judgments and words concerning my decision not to invite him (though I had). I wonder sometimes if God had a hand in helping that invitation go astray.

I just. I know that what I experienced wasn't terrible, really. People lose the ones they love to death all the time. It's painful, and it's difficult to live without someone you love so much, to walk a few more steps away from their memory every single day that you live beyond them. I've never had to do that. I've never experienced war or starvation. But when I think about people that do feel those things, and I match up their pain with the pain in my heart, I feel weak. I have a small burden to bear.

I know this in my head, but my heart won't feel it. It just, it just doesn't really ever go away. I live with the hurt still, and I expect to do so until I die. I manage to put it out of my mind most of the time, but it's never very far away. I feel so much anger, I feel so much hurt, I feel so much confusion.

I'm angry that he left. I'm angry that he decided that we weren't worth it, that I wasn't worth it. I'm angry that he hurt my Mother. I'm angry that he hurt my sister. I'm angry that he confused me and led me to question myself. I'm angry that something so trivial will upset me all my life. I'm angry because he gave me problems that I'll spend my whole life working through. I'm angry, I'm angry, I'm angry. It's raw and it's red and it's wild in my heart.

I'm hurt that he left. I'm hurt that he decided that we weren't worth fighting for, and especially hurt that he decided that I wasn't worth fighting for. I tried so hard to be good enough for him! It's all I ever wanted. I hurt because it feels like my fault sometimes. I'm hurt because I can't change him and because he sometimes distracted me from the blessings and the Father that was in front of me. I'm hurt because I want to stop hurting. I want to stop this aching and I don't want to cry anymore, but when I stop acknowledging the hurt it sneaks up on me and stays. It leaves me empty.

I'm confused because I don't understand why. I feel like I deserved this sometimes. Maybe I wasn't good enough. Maybe I should have tried harder. Maybe it was something I did before I was born! I'm confused because I don't understand why this had to happen. Not just to me, but to my whole family. It affects everyone I've ever met, whether they know it or not, and it especially affects my Mother. I'm confused because I know she didn't deserve it; I don't think anyone could ever deserve something like that. The confusion twists inside me endlessly.

I read a book about two people that fall in love--only she's haunted by a series of terrible events that shook her life to its frame and left her a shadow of who she could have been, and he doesn't know how to help her. When she loses her life in an accident, he finds himself traveling back into time, given the priceless opportunity to rescue her and stop the first terrible event from happening so many years ago. Remarking upon this difference between the girl she'd been and the girl she got to be now, he relates a story in which he is a young boy, driving through a forest with his uncle. He says to his uncle: "this forest is so beautiful," to which his uncle replies: "you should have seen it before the hurricane." Looking closely after these words, he notices all the small flaws that he hadn't noticed before. He looks at this girl and realizes that he's gotten this lucky chance to change her story; he's given her the chance to be, permanently, the forest before the hurricane.

After reading the story, I was left with this question:

Would I go back and change it if I could? 

I was left so unsatisfied by that story. I mean, sure she got to be the forest before the hurricane, and that is truly beautiful, but I think that the forest after the hurricane must have been equally as beautiful in its own way. I liked the girl just fine after her hurricane--it gave her the capacity to understand him in ways that she lost once she was changed. The point of the story, I think, was that he risked changing her life so drastically that she might possibly never meet him. He loved her enough to do what was best for her even if it took him out of her life. It was a happy miracle that they were able to meet again and be together.

I however, don't think that I would go back and change my life if I could. How could I ever trade the person I am now for a life free of pain? I would be so much less sure of the things I know now if I had never had to pass through adversity. I wouldn't be able to empathize. Well, I don't really know who I'd be. But I feel so protective of the me that I've been able to build that I don't think I'd want to change a single thing. But more importantly, I've come to peace with the fact that no matter how badly I want to change it or not:

I can't. 

And that's that. I have learned so much about my Savior's love for me through this experience. I have grown immeasurably closer to him through the ups and downs and pains and joys of my life. I really can't explain the miracle that this alone has been in my life. Like this post, my life has not been only characterized by pain and hurt and anger. There is peace that comes to my soul when I think to ask, and sometimes even when I don't.

The best way out, indeed, is through. I'm not through yet, but I'm working on it.