The Vote Has Been Noted

As my readers who are fellow members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints most likely know, a sparse, but audible opposing vote sounded during the sustaining of the First Presidency during the Saturday afternoon session of General Conference (a worldwide broadcast in which we listen to revelation and counsel from church leadership). This unusual phenomenon has been whirring around in my brain ever since, and I've felt that I should share what I've been thinking about it publicly. To my readers who are not members of the church, I apologize if none of this makes much sense. I'm happy to answer questions or clarify anything I've expressed here, if you make it through and have any confusion or curiosity.

What I've learned this weekend can be broken down into three ideas:

1. A diagnosis doesn't change a condition

This is a concept I learned second-hand from my very wise mother, when I was a child. A family member of a friend had received a diagnosis of a condition that had been affecting him for quite a while, and this friend was quite distressed by the news. My kind mama, being the mother-to-all that she is, sat down to have a talk with her. Among other sentiments, she asked the young woman something along these lines: "Is he any different today than he was yesterday?" And of course, he wasn't. This is a concept that has burrowed into my mind ever since.

I recall once being ill for quite a long time, without relief from rest or over-the-counter remedies. I wasn't much of a sick-complainer child, which occasionally led to my sickness going unrecognized and untreated for far too long. Finally, when I had missed enough school to make it apparent that I wasn't getting better on my own, I got carted off to the doctor's office, where an examination and tests verified that I was suffering from severe bronchitis. Naming the illness didn't change it, but it did give us the information we needed to seek out proper treatment. It took a very long time for me to fully recover- much longer than it would have if I had just spoken up and admitted the severity of what I was feeling- but I did, indeed, get better.

Is the Gospel any different today than it was Saturday morning? Of course not. It's no surprise that there are those within the church who don't sustain the Prophet. Sadly, this is inevitable, somewhere among our 15 million members. The only thing that has changed is that we are officially aware of a condition about which we always knew, though unable to name it. I believe that Christ, who healed the sick and brought sight to the blind, can heal His Church and give us the vision and understanding we need to be compassionate and work toward resolution, while standing for what we believe.

2. Thee lift me and I'll lift Thee, and we'll ascend together

I currently serve as the ward choir pianist and the Relief Society secretary in my ward. In both of these callings, I have the privilege and the burden of seeing what it means to sustain someone in a calling. Both of these callings are what I'd call "supporting roles." As an accompanist, my job is to do whatever the ward choir director asks me to do. As a secretary... well, they could probably just rename this position "Errand Girl." This makes it very easy for me to sustain my Choir Director and my Relief Society President, as I promised to do when I raised my hand for them in Sacrament meeting, simply by doing everything I can to magnify my own callings.

But what of my efforts to sustain others in the myriad callings that keep the church running and the Gospel spreading? Do I sustain my Visiting Teaching Coordinator by completing and reporting my visits? Do I sustain my Ward Mission Leader by giving of my time and substance to help the full-time and ward missionaries, and having the faith and courage to open my mouth and trust it will be filled with the right words? Do I sustain my children's Primary leaders by signing the substitute roster or helping the kids learn the Articles of Faith or Primary songs? Do I sustain my Bishop by lifting him up in prayer, paying my tithing, doing my best to be on time to church, or showing up on my designated week to clean the building?

Sustaining a member in his or her calling begins when we raise a hand as they are called, but that is, of course, purely symbolic. It represents (or should) something greater: a commitment we make to our brothers and sisters to shoulder the vast responsibility of running our organization together. To carry one another sometimes and to be carried other times. Often, I think I make the mistake of floating through the sustaining of church officers on auto-pilot. I raise my hand when I'm asked to vote, without much consideration of what it actually indicates. In light of this realization, I have to admit that the opposing vote in the Saturday session was probably more carefully-considered and sincere than my sustaining one. It's time for that to change. I am committing, this minute, to be more aware of the significance of the agreement I make with my raised hand. I am committing to find more ways to put concerted effort behind the symbol of my sustaining vote- to follow my Prophet.

(Please, tell me you've done this.)

3. It must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things

For a too-long period of time, I left the Church. During that time, I worked hard to convince myself that I didn't believe in any of it. I probably worked harder at NOT believing than I ever worked at believing. I did my best to dwell in unholy places, so the Holy Ghost would have no power to prod me to make wiser choices. When I met my husband, we both identified as Agnostic. I wanted nothing to do with God, or Christ, or the Gospel. And then something happened.

Kyle started hearing things about the LDS church- ridiculous things, you know, like the alien theory. That kind of lovely lore. Knowing I'd grown up in the Church and that my parents were still active members, he turned to me to confirm or deny what he'd been told. This led to many long discussions, in which I explained what "they" actually believe. At some point, after a particularly outrageous rumor and discussion, it hit me: Why was I so vehemently defending a religion I had no interest in? Why was it so important to me that my boyfriend understand the actual doctrines of a Gospel I'd renounced? And so it was that by creating opposition, my LDS-ignorant, non-member boyfriend started me on the path back to my Heavenly Father.

There are a few common situations in the Church that can sometimes create very awkward moments. A Sacrament prayer that must be repeated 16 times because of some missing preposition; a baptism that must be re-done because someone has an unfortunately floaty toe or two; the wrong woman, due to misread notes, mis-called as Relief Society President; an opposing vote during the sustaining of Church officers.

These are some of the events that help me feel the Spirit strongest. Hearing a 16-year-old Priest struggling to read the Sacrament Prayer properly fills me with compassion, and pride at the perseverance of a young man who understands the importance of this ordinance. Seeing a worthy man serve in the waters of Baptism, patiently repeating the process until it is properly carried out, bolsters my testimony of the Priesthood and baptism by immersion. Knowing that that Sister would accept a calling as Relief Society President this moment, if that's what was intended, reminds me that the Lord qualifies the called. These slightly uncomfortable events have always given me strength.

When I heard the opposing vote against President Monson, I immediately felt that same fire with which I'd defended the Gospel years ago flare up within my heart. I wanted to stand and raise my hand and raise my voice right here from my living room and tell that dear, wonderful old man that I sustain him! In that moment I would have had the courage to shout it from the mountaintops. And that burning of the Spirit cemented all the more firmly, because of the opposition, my conviction that President Thomas S. Monson is indeed a Prophet of God in the latter days. I believe that he speaks with God. I believe that he receives revelation pertaining to the entire world at this very time. I believe that he is the mouthpiece of the Lord. I also know that he is prone to the same weaknesses and failures that plague every human on this Earth, but I have faith that the Lord qualifies him and bears him up in his efforts to serve the Church and the world.

**********************

And so, opposing voters, I sincerely thank you for prompting these reflections. Your choice on Saturday has motivated me to search my soul for deeper understanding, and the Spirit has testified these principles to me as a result.

She was too lazy to mail out a Christmas letter, so instead she did THIS!

I don't mail out a Christmas card or letter. I never have, and I can pretty much promise I never will. There are just so many excellent things to do with my time, like making cupcakes... eating cupcakes... dreaming about cupcakes... that it just won't get done. Therefore, I shall use my lovely blog to do what I always do with my lovely blog: talk about myself! Well, my family. Same thing. In short, welcome to the Wilson Family Christmas Letter of 2014. I kind of feel like it should rhyme.

Merry Christmas, dear friends, and to family alike! 

(And the three random dudes who subscribe to this site.)

With plenty of patience, you're welcome to hear

all the things that our family lived through this year!

We've spent twelve whole months on the same coast, (the east),

Which is very confusing. The house that we leased

when we moved here last fall had a problem with heat.

Georgia's iciest winter in years was a treat.

We survived January with heaters and quilts. 

Then in February, the baby I built

finished up his gestation and came out to play.

Malachi got to scream peacefully for nine days,

and then the event to which I now refer

as "Treepocalypse" happened- as you've likely heard.

We had a bad ice storm, which sent half a tree

crashing icily, unceremoniously,

right down through the roof in our Damien's room

with a terrible, frightening, lease-ending boom.

We moved from that town to the next in a rush

to a beautiful home with no trees there to crush.

Our two bigger kids handled all this with grace.

They've got lots of practice at being displaced,

but given the circumstance, we could not be

more thrilled at their patience and maturity.

The next several months seemed to pass whirlwind-style

helped along not a little by night shifts for Kyle.

Our firstborn completed his first year of school;

he's brilliant at math and he thinks art is cool.

And during the summer, with thought and debate

we decided to home-school, and that has been great!

Our Lyric likes having her brother at home-

it gives her more people to rule from her throne.

As you may be aware, when someone turns three,

she suddenly turns into high royalty.

She's beautiful, funny, outspoken and smart

and she dances and plays with all of her heart.

Malachi's grown the most, which is to be expected

and we've yet to find one single food he's rejected.

He's learning to walk and refuses to say

anything but "DADA," to his mother's dismay.

Kyle and I are quite boring, as we like to be.

He teaches youth Sunday School, and somebody

thought it would be an excellent joke to call me

to serve as a women's group Secretary.

They claim that the Happiest Place on this Earth

is a few hours south of us. For what it's worth, 

we finished our year with a trip down to see

if Orlando could bring us some holiday glee.

And it did. But the fact is, the claim isn't true.

We had fun, we came home, and confirmed what we knew:

'14 was packed full of hard work, stress, some pain.

But as long as our faith and our family remain, 

The Happiest Place on the Earth is right here, 

and we'll love '15 just as much as this past year.

You Can't Do Anything If You Put Your Mind To It

This is a concept I'm attempting to teach my children in a positive way. Damien, of course, has gone to a year of school and been fed this lovely, empowering, and patently untrue (when taken literally) principle, and he is SUCH a literal child that I occasionally have to crush dreams of sprouting wings or running (on foot) to Colorado to visit his grandmas tomorrow through sheer willpower.

When I was pregnant with Malachi, I faced the lovely glucose tolerance test. Many women dislike this test because of the icky, syrupy test substance, but my specific circumstances make it more of an issue of actual inability. I considered refusing to even attempt it, but after much pressure from my doctor and nurses, I made the poor decision to push through it. Having undergone a gastric bypass and being the owner of a small pouch instead of a standard-sized stomach, I am unable to consume significant volumes of food or drink, and anything with a high concentration of sugar makes me temporarily quite ill. However, never having placed an actual quantifiable limit on either volume or sugar concentration, I decided to give the test a shot and try the limits. 

If you've ever done the glucose test, you know that you're given a fairly small bottle of an unnaturally-colored liquid of sickly-sweet, disgustingness; the intensity of the nasty is generally dependent on brand, flavor and temperature. You are told you must consume the entire bottle in five minutes or less, and then a timer is set and your blood is drawn at appropriate times depending on the method of testing. The nurse handed me the bottle and I realized I had made a grave mistake in proceeding with this test: it definitely exceeded my capacity. I had already had my preliminary blood drawn so I (stupid stupid stupid) decided to do it anyway. At 4 minutes I was *maybe* halfway through. The nurse came in and chastised me, saying that I would have to start over if I didn't hurry up. Then she left the room, failed to close the door all the way, and began loudly complaining to my doctor that I was dawdling. He reminded her that this was a particularly difficult procedure for me and she might need to give me some extra time. (Thank goodness SOMEONE understood how difficult it is to fit a half-cup of syrupy nastiness into a quarter-cup container.) She sighed irritably, and then she said it: "It's not that hard- it's just mind over matter."

You don't need to know the details of the rest of the story. A vague overview involves nearly passing out and falling off the exam table, vomiting in a trash can in the lobby, and spending the next three days in bed. It was a bad idea. I should have refused. I should have told them "I'm sorry, I can't do this test." I shouldn't have decided to just "put my mind to it." Sometimes, matter wins.

And now I'm realizing- do I set my children up for situations like this when I preach to them that they can do anything if they just put their minds to it? If I tell my kid he can do anything if he just wills it hard enough, or learns enough, or practices enough, what do I tell him when he proves, due to nature or circumstance, to be simply incapable of accomplishing something? I remember being asked to put something away, as a child, that was supposed to be put on a shelf that I simply could not reach, no matter what I climbed. My limitation (height) was not one I chose, nor one I had any power to change by a force of will. And I was devastated that I had failed. 

So I've decided to un-teach my children this idea. For a positive replacement, I will teach them the following:

In everything you do, do the best you can.

Sometimes you will try and fail. This does not diminish your worth.

Have the courage to sometimes say "No, I cannot do that." Have the humility to admit when a task is better-suited to someone else.

Be honest about your strengths. Draw on the strengths of those who love you to fill in where you are limited.

I believe that we can, someday, attain every righteous desire of our hearts. But sometimes, when every effort fails, it's not that day yet. And sometimes, it's not the right desire. We need to have faith in our abilities, but we also need to recognize our inabilities and know that we aren't meant to be completely capable, whatever our measure of determination. I don't entirely hate the concept of "you can do anything if you put your mind to it" because I understand that it isn't meant to be taken to the extreme of sprouting wings, but for my very denotative child, I think this will work much better.

And as a side note, I'll definitely be refusing all future glucose tolerance testing.

Happy Mother's Day

Quite often I look at my babies,

And notice the features we share.

Could I choose just what they'd inherit

This would be my sincerest prayer:

To witness creation's magic

And the pain a brother hides

To shed the tears of compassion

Give them my mother's eyes.

To offer the lonely friendship

To patiently fill life's demands

To gracefully carry their burdens

Give them my mother's hands

That they may always speak kindly

Sing praises to Him and rejoice

Share truth and hope with all nations

Give them my mother's voice

Let them accept, love and welcome

Let them learn the great Master's art

Give them charity, courage and passion

Give them my mother's heart.

Once An Addict

We're not sayin' you can change him,

'Cause people don't really change.

Eight years ago this moment I had a craving. I did what I always did, and found someone willing to share my drug of choice that night. I snuck out of my parents house and did what I always did, and got high. When I got back to my neighbourhood, I had my ride drop me off at a path I used to bike as a child so that I could finish my pack of cigarettes before I went back home. I walked down that path, cut through the trees to cross the stream and go to a clearing where I used to play, and for whatever reason, that moment, my heart broke inside me. I sat there for at least two hours and smoked my cigarettes and cried. I don't know why that day, that moment, that place, was The Day, The Moment, The Place, but for whatever reason truth got through to me and I saw what I was doing to myself and to my life, and knew I needed to change. I didn't know how to do it, I didn't have the income or the resources to get professional help, and I didn't have the confidence that I even could do it, but Oh, how I wanted to. To make a long story short, I did it. I quit. And it was really, really hard. And there was a concept, popular in addiction recovery literature and discussion, that almost became my downfall:

Once an addict, always an addict.

I understand how, in the context of long-term healing from a crippling addiction of whatever kind, this is an important and useful idea. Having once been addicted to a substance from which withdrawal felt like trying to walk away from my skin, I understand the importance of a lifetime of vigilance to avoid situations that might make me vulnerable. I get it. But considering my path TO drug addiction began with a staggering lack of self-worth, this was a concept that dug at me. Would I always be defined by my poor choices? Was I even worth the effort to repair, or had I broken myself into too many pieces to hide the cracks? Would I ever be myself again? Would I always be an addict?

As I turned my eyes back in Heaven's direction during my recovery, I agonized over the idea that "people don't really change." I underwent a grueling repentance process and learned how to use the power of Christ's Atonement to free me from sin, to free me from addiction, to free me from the guilt of my past. And I convinced myself that people DO change. The Atoning Sacrifice of Jesus Christ has the power to right what's wrong. It has the power to transform a heart, a body, a soul. It has the power to correct a course that was so misdirected there seemed no chance for recovery. That people don't really change, I thought, was a lie that Satan concocted to make human beings lose hope.

It was a valuable revelation. But it didn't quite satisfy me. Eventually, I learned that Jesus could pick up the pieces and reassemble the vessel that was my being, yes. But not only can and does He put it back together, He mends it so completely that it isn't "like new," it is new. In time I learned that the concept I had to reject to get to that point was actually true, but in a different way than I had applied it previously.

People don't really change.

It wasn't that I was once an addict, therefore always an addict. It wasn't that I would be forever affected and defined by my mistakes. It wasn't that I would be forever in a state of recovery. I learned that I had to look back further. I had to look back to my origins.

I am a daughter of my Heavenly Father.

He loves me.

I am of infinite worth.

I am a child of God.

It. Never. Changes. Nothing I have ever done or could ever do could change who I really am. Not addiction, not sin, not failure, not guilt... There is no force or condition on this Earth that has the power to change the eternal definition of who I am.

As I celebrate eight drug-free years tomorrow, that's the message I would share. I held the same worth in the eyes of the Father of my spirit the day I was born as I did the day I picked up the pipe, and the day I put it down, and today, and for all tomorrows. That will not- cannot- change. I will ALWAYS be worth the effort of positive changes and repentance in my life, but when I fall short, my value is not diminished. 

"Remember, the worth of souls is great in the sight of God." -No qualifiers. No conditions. 

Doctor Grandma

I have the coolest grandma in the world. She raises buffalo (ok, ok, Great Danes, but try convincing the five-year-old version of my baby brother they weren't buffalo), she once owned an arcade where patrons were required to kiss a ceramic duck if they cursed, you'll never beat her at air hockey (or bowling, for that matter) unless she lets you, and she's still awesome even when you're stranded in Laramie, Wyoming... which is an impressive feat. I can't see, smell or taste Diet Pepsi, root beer popsicles or peanut M&Ms without being magically transported to her dining room table to play a round of Rook and somewhere in the boxes in the garage (we just finished moving a few days ago- gimme a break!) is carefully packed a grandma-hand-painted ceramic statue of a little girl reading a book to her little sibling that has accompanied me throughout at least the last 20 years of my life. I remember when she would come for Easter and bring us baskets, and how guilty I would feel when she would stay home from church or leave early to make us delicious food... I remember a particular cake batter she mixed up and then accidentally dropped on the floor. "I didn't even swear!" she proudly proclaimed. Years later I was in a car accident and giggled when my first thought in the aftermath was "I didn't even swear!"

I have the coolest grandma in the world.

One of my grandma's secret magic talents is playing Doctor Mario. I remember watching her play, as a child, and being utterly baffled by her. She would deliberately not break the most obvious lines. Sometimes she would just drop a block in the most random place. She would build up these impossible-to-come-back-from piles of bizarre piece placements and I would sit there inwardly puzzling to myself, "Why in the world would you do that? Why didn't you use that block to break that line? Oh, here's a double red, she'll break it now... WHAT THE HECK WHY DIDN'T SHE DO IT???" It made no sense. And the blocks would fall faster and the stage would get more cluttered and things would spiral quickly out of control, and I knew she was about to lose... At least that's how I saw it.

Until.........

Until she would get the perfect sequence of pieces and BAM BAM BAM BAM one by one she would calmly set them into place and the giant mess of seemingly random insanity would simplify, condense, disappear... all in seconds. She always knew. She knew that if she just waited, the necessary colors would fall. If she just set up the situation in a way that made sense to her, though perhaps not to her watching grand-daughter, she could make it right when the time came. Eventually I learned to trust that she would fix it all when she was ready. That she was just setting up the perfect circumstances to win the stage in the coolest possible way. Grandma knew what she was doing, and I knew it, even though I still couldn't always see it.

Welcome to my recent history.

Heavenly Father knows what He's doing with me. I can't see it and I can't always understand why things happen the way they do. Lately it's felt a bit like one of my grandma's Doctor Mario setups: a strange, inexplicable set of difficult circumstances where I've had no choice but to sit and watch the pieces fall, and sometimes wonder, "Why in the world would you do that? Why didn't you use that block to break that line? Oh, here's a double red, it'll break now... WHAT THE HECK WHY DIDN'T YOU DO IT???"

But I've learned -am still learning- to put my trust in One who knows better, and sees the end before the process. He knows the setup. He knows where to place the pieces. He knows just how crazy it can get before it's time to complete the stage and move on to the next. And I'm learning to let Him take the controller, because Heaven knows what a mess I've made when I've tried to play on my own. Every piece of my life, even tree limbs through my roof, has had a strategic placement in its stage, and lucky (blessed) me: when I let Him drop the blocks, I get to win in the coolest possible way.

I Am Thankful For the Doctrine of Gratitude

So, not only am I writing this blog, but I was asked on Sunday to speak next Sunday on developing an attitude of gratitude. Can I just say, first off, that I really wish those words didn't rhyme? I worked on my talk today and had to make sure I didn't put them anywhere near each other- I HATE rhyming, unless I'm reciting poetry. Which I AM doing in my talk, so that's plenty. Anyhow. Having a thankful heart is one of my soapbox issues... and since, from my soapbox, I usually only reach... well... me... I'm excited to get to speak about this topic. It means a lot to me.

One thing I realized, while I was formulating my thoughts earlier, is that I am incredibly grateful that I've been taught all my life that gratitude is a commandment. I really think "commandment," with its modern connotations, is a terrible word for the expectations Heavenly Father set out for us. I much prefer guidelines... blueprints... advice. Or maybe just... "Plan of Happiness." Diligently following the commandment to be grateful has turned out to be single most instrumental piece of the puzzle of happiness in my life. Gratitude has successfully filled every hole that ever needed filling. And maybe it's turned me into an insufferable Pollyanna-type, but I can live with that. In fact, I can't live without that.

I found this verse in my research today, and I love it: "And he who receiveth all things with thankfulness shall be made glorious; and the things of this earth shall be added unto him, even an hundred fold, yea, more." (Doctrine and Covenants 78:19) 

I can definitely live with that.