On Humility

I reserved the right to change my mind, and while I haven't changed my opinion, I've changed my attitude.  I spent Sunday dwelling in frustration, arguing with my sister missionary about gay rights and, while I watched conference in the morning, I was completely unfocused, and I didn't watch in the afternoon.  My sister missionary told me to study something, but I didn't want to.  I considered picking up my Book of Mormon and just reading the next chapter, but in my imagination when I picked up the book, I tore it to pieces.  I was neither willing nor worthy to receive revelation from God, so I didn't see the point of studying.  I decided to bake instead.
I've been reading through the Book of Mormon and underlining the things that are meaningful to me.  At the end of each book I go back and make notes in my study journal about why those verses were important.  Though I was half way through Helaman, I hadn't gone back over Alma, so, after baking muffins, I decided to do that.  I prayed.  I told God that I wasn't sure why I was still trying, but I was.
I started flipping through Alma, stopping when I had something underlined.  I had Alma 5:7 underlined.  Perhaps I underlined it thinking that God had changed my heart, but it became my prayer that God would change my heart.  But what really hit me was Alma 5:28 "Behold, are you stripped of pride?  I say unto you, if ye are not ye are not prepared to meet God.  Behold ye must prepare quickly; for the kingdom of heaven is soon at hand, and such an one hath not eternal life."
Was I stripped of my pride?  Not at all, and I knew it.  I knew I was refusing to be teachable, I knew I was holding on to my opinions as right, unshakable and better than everyone else's opinion.  I had Alma 5:33 underlined as well.  "Behold, he sendeth an invitation unto all men, for the arms of mercy are extended towards them, and he saith: Repent, and I will receive you."  I had some repenting to do.
I decided I should watch Elder Anderson's talk again, this time with determination to be humble and teachable.  Five minutes in, I stopped it.  He hadn't even started talking about homosexuality yet, but I was questioning.  I don't have childlike faith, blind faith.  I still think I know better than people speaking on behalf of God.  When I try to just accept I feel like I am brainwashing myself.  I remembered that I can write down my questions.  That validates them, they are real questions, but stops them from consuming all my thoughts.
He said that there was always going to be sin in this world, but I thought after Christ's reign on earth that the world was going to be transformed/perfected/celestialized.  Did he just mean in this current state there would always be sin?
He talked about the trials that some of the general authorities faced in their early years, but they all seemed really small, really trivial to me.  If he was trying to conjure up sympathy by telling me that Packer had polio, it didn't work.  Thousands of kids will die today because of hunger and preventable illnesses.  You don't care.  I don't care, really.  If I want you to care, I'll tell you a story of a little girl, Sary, barely 7.  Her dad is gone, her mom is in labour.  Sary is trying to keep her two younger siblings calm as her mom screams with her legs spread on the dirt floor.  Sary is doing doing everything she can to comfort her mother.  She fetches water (it's murky, something you'd never drink) and brings it back to her mother.  The mother screams again, and then the bady, a boy, slides out.  Sary is there in time to catch the baby.  She hands the newborn to her mother, but her face is paling.  She's bleeding badly from a tear that happened during birth.  "His name shall be Miro," she says, blessing the newborn child with her last breath.  Later that afternoon, while Miro sleeps, the children dig up the dirt with their bare hands, and bury their mother in a low grave.  They stand together weeping.  When Miro awakes, Sary tries everything to comfort the boy, but she doesn't have what he needs.  They haven't the ability to feed Miro, and he will die a few days later.  They will dig a grave for him next to his mother's.
I hope you feel some sympathy, but the story is just a creation, something made up based upon what happens all too often.  A story with loveable characters will elicit sympathy; stats will not.  Thousands of kids are dying of hunger?  So what.  Packer had polio?  I don't care.  I suppose my concern here was with the delivery, not the message.  Actually, I'm not sure what point he was trying to make.  Trials make us stronger?  Sometimes, but sometimes they kill us.  I think I was most bothered by how much weight he wanted to grant to the trials of the general authorities, whilst seemingly forgetting the kids growing up in war zones, or the ones who struggle every day to find food, or the... the list goes on.
I had a few thoughts after that, like:
-Prepare for trials by remembering.
-Don't disconnect sex from all that goes along with it (namely intimacy, children, trust, love)
-Same-sex attraction = trial of faith.  I'm not sure how I feel about that statement.  it seems weighty.  Same-sex attraction certainly leads some to trials of faith, but is it in an of itself a trial of faith?
-Beware of self-righteousness.
-Strength comes from trusting the Lord's prophets (yikes that sounds hard and scary)
-Experiences confirm that Jesus is the Christ (what will those experiences look like?)
-Jesus will comfort me.

After listening to the talk, I continued going through Alma.  Alma 13:28 was again about humility.  I need to be humble.  That is a choice, but it is also a process, a journey that the Holy Spirit will lead me on.  Alma 36:5 confirmed my thought that I am not worthy to receive revelation from God.  That, however, won't stop God from making things known unto me.  God loves me and receives me, and if I am humble, he will be able to teach me.  For that I am thankful.

Cookies and Biscuits

The table is set, the water hot for tea, my mess shoved into the closet.  I’m waiting for him to come.  He never gave me a time so I’m antsy, nervous.  I go into the kitchen once more, wipe off the counters and put the dry dishes away.  I glance at the beige table cloth I’ve chosen, is it too dull?  I look at my other choices –too childish. –too bright.  –stained.  I hold the one I think he’ll like best.  An olive green, simple but embroidered with leaves.  I glance at the clock.  It won’t take me long to change the table cloth, but what if he comes when I’m in the middle of the task?  I put the olive table cloth away.  I go flick the kettle on again.  Then I sit down with a book, with his book.  He’d be pleased if he sees me reading that when he comes.  I’m a little too anxious to focus on the words.  I go change my shirt, wash my face and brush my teeth.  I wonder if I should be wearing a dress.  I glance in my closet and shake my head.  He’ll have to be fine with me in a t-shirt and jeans.  I sit back down with his book.  Then I get up and change the table cloth.  I am just replacing the last tea cup when the doorbell rings.  My heart jumps.  I detour through the kitchen to turn the kettle back on.  I take a few deep breaths to try to calm my racing heart.  I unlock the door and creak it open.  There before me stands a boy with a silly smile on his face.  Maybe he is a man, I cannot tell.  The worst thing ever is happening.  I do not know if this is he.  Perhaps it is just a boy scout from the neighbourhood selling cookies standing at a loss for words, or maybe it is I who is at a loss for words.  I stare at him until I feel rude then I quickly turn away.  He stands there grinning.  It is as if he enjoys the misery he is putting me through.  Suddenly I feel that even if this is him, I am not sure I want him in my house.  Finally the silence, beating like a drum, forces me to act. 

“Come in” I say at last.

He steps inside the doorway and looks up at me, awaiting the next direction.  I’m still wondering, if this is him, wouldn’t he be more assertive?

“Come sit down for some tea”

“It is a pleasure to meet you” he says as we walk towards the table.

“You too,” I reply halfheartedly. “take a seat, I’ll just grab the tea.”  I think about asking him what kind of tea he likes, but I doubt he’s picky so I chose earl grey so I can use the same tea bag twice.  Then I wonder, what if he’s Mormon.  I don’t want to offend him, so I pull out my herbal teas.  Raspberry lemon drop?  Is that too girly for him?  I settle with apple cinnamon.  I stack my homemade biscuits on a plate.  I cannot wait to see his face when he bites into one.  He’ll be telling me I’m a good cook.  I know it.  I take out his tea and the plate of biscuits.  When I go back for my tea and the plate of cookies – I plan to impress him with the array of baked goods – I start to worry.  What will we talk about?  I try to look at my reflection in the microwave.  Nothing’s between my teeth; everything’s perfect.  I sit down across from him.  His face still dons a large smile.  I look away from him and focus my gaze on the cookies I just sat down.

“Try some,” I offer. “There are oatmeal, double chocolate chip and peanut butter.”

He reaches for a double chocolate chip cookie, “if I didn’t know you better” he smirks “I’d think you were trying to make me fat.”

I don’t know what to make of his comment so I decide to be offended.  I take a cookie and slouch back in my chair, diverting my eyes to my tea.  This isn’t him, I reason, he wouldn’t say that.

“What would you like to talk about” he asks after giving me a moment to sulk.

I thought he would know, but right now I just want to hear him say that the cookies are delicious, the table cloth is just right, and my house looks beautiful.  He takes another bite of the cookie, but I cannot tell if it is because he enjoys it, or if he is just trying to be polite.  I take a sip of my tea and it burns my tongue.  I bit my lip to avoid saying anything I’ll regret.  Of course he knows what I am thinking.  I look up to see him still smiling.  This time I want to curse at him.  I wonder if he knows, but his mannerism doesn’t change.  Of course, I think, he is supposed to love me even if I am not quite perfect.  My imperfection isn’t going to shock him, but I thought he might at least comment on my perfection.  His question still hangs, unforgotten in the air.  I think I am supposed to echo it back to him, but I’m afraid to hear what he wants to talk about.  I could ask him about the morality of homosexuality, but I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.  I could ask him why I am so lonely, but he’d probably answer with a confusing parable that would leave the blame on me.  I think about asking him why there is so much suffering in the world, but I am not sure I was to hear his answers.

Finally I reply, “Don’t you know.”

He nods, sets down his mostly unfinished tea and stands up.

“Where are you going?” I ask him frantically.  Had I offended him?

“I’ll come back when your heart is open to what I have to say.” He says as he slips on his shoes.

“But I thought that was part of your job!”  I protest as he slips out the door.

I stare longingly after him as he walks down the sidewalk, and turns, walking out of my sight.

Angrily I survey my tidy house.  I pick up his barely touched cup of tea and throw it against the wall swearing.  I rip the table cloth from the table and watch as the biscuits and cookies fly everywhere.  I stomp on the ones that land on the floor.  Cursing, stomping, pushing things over.  Then utterly exhausted I collapse on amidst the mess.  I lie there, steeped in misery, hoping he’ll come back.

Why not...?

I have been put face to face with my pride recently. I was reading a book about woman in leadership (especially Church leadership) which suggested that men are often unwilling to learn from woman because of their pride. But what about woman? What about me? It occurred to be that I may be too proud to learn from woman as well. Somehow I can get caught up thinking that I a better than the average female. I start thinking that they are all touchy feely and none of them use their brain very much. I easily believe that there is nothing good about being touchy feely and that I have nothing to learn from them. sorry, I am wrong. I need to live like I believe that I can learn something from everyone, because I can, and because I am not better than them. I tend to judge people quickly and then decide whether or not I can learn from them, or if they are interesting to me. I dismiss people quickly. I don’t give them a chance. This too is wrong. And it is degrading. I say that I believe that all people are valuable, but I don’t treat them all as if they are. I need to learn to treat people right, but what if I am unwilling to learn from the person who can teach me this? It is time that I push through the boundaries I have created.

For she who has been forgiven much, loves much.

Ever since she moved into my house, I started to pray for her differently. It became rare that I would pray for her salvation, or healing, instead I spent my time crying out to God to give me patience; give me love. I never really like going on walks with her, at time she would try to hold my hand, or take my arm, and I just found it more than awkward.
Walking was worse in the winter. I could side across the ice with no problem. But that frightened her, it took her much time to walk down the side walk. I didn’t like always being told to slow down; ordered not to slide. I was doing okay.
This morning started before the walk to church. I was in my room, reading the Bible when she came in interrupting. I answered her questions quickly, just hoping she would leave. And she would leave, and come back too. She could tell I was being short with her. She didn’t like it. As she left I had to question what had I done. There I was, putting my alone time, this ritual up as a blockade. I made it more important than the second greatest commandment, Love people.
Maybe walking to Church was a bad idea. Anyhow, the whole way there I was dreading it. I didn’t like her coming to Church with me. Often times she would go with my mom or my sister, but my mom was working, and my sister out of town. I remembered the times before, having her at church, trying to distance my self from her, mostly from her touch. But I was struck by the familiarity of it all, confronted by something not only which I read, but that I wrote In a fictional story “I hate it, I hate how the church is today. I wish it could be a place where people might go and really feel God's presence, and feel loved. I wish it were a place of selfless people first there to serve God, then others. I wish God was real to the people at church… I'm sorry, I shouldn't of done that this morning, I mean... it was stupid of me. I knew it was what they were thinking… can't believe I did that.” and “No, God wasn't at church! Even you became less caring there, and more concerned about what others were thinking.” And I believe that must be how she felt coming to church with me those days.
I wish I could say today was better, different from those times in the past, but it wasn’t. If anything it was worse, I was aware that being in Church was maybe, if anything a reason to be more caring, and most definitely not less. I was aware I didn’t need to care about what others thought. I had read the story of becoming less caring at Church, and I certainly didn’t want anything to do with that. Yet I hate being told what to do. I didn’t stand during worship, and when she told me to stand I wanted to so much less. I sat struggling with this idea of love, and just wanting it to be easy. She would place he hand on my arm, or my leg, and I would sit uncomfortably until I could take it no longer. I had to move. I would search for a reason, like taking off my coat, but I could only take off my coat once. I struggled with this, not even knowing why it bothered me so much. But it angered me, tore me to pieces; kept me on the verge of tears. Then, when I did decide to stand, placing my hands on the pew in front of me, it was only moments before her hand was on mine. I tried to be okay with it, acting like nothing happened. But I hated it, I couldn’t stand it. I removed my hand, and though she tried to hold it I refused. I sat back down, trying to get as far away from her as possible. When I got home I wrote but four short lines in my journal. “God I failed at church… why is that? When reading my Bible, while at Church, I have no patience for her, no allotment for her awkwardness.” I wasn’t sure of what allotment meant, but it was the best word I could come up with. I asked for God’s forgiveness, I had failed indeed. Then I read the end of the story I had written; the part with the trip to church, the climax, the conclusion. But I started far enough before that, so I was distracted my mind put to ease rather than sent on a guilt trip.
We all make mistakes. We are all called to grace, and I am thankful for that grace. Tonight I went to another church. Before communion this was read: “My dear children, I write this to you so that you will not sin. But if anybody does sin, we have one who speaks to the Father in our defense—Jesus Christ, the Righteous One. He is the atoning sacrifice for our sins, and not only for ours but also for the sins of the whole world.” I was so happy for this grace so thankful for what God had done so ready to partake in communion. I was so aware of my short comings that I was so ready to accept the help, to accept grace. I just can’t make it on my own.