With Wondering Awe

Today in Relief Society we had a lesson about the life and Atonement of Jesus Christ which seemed wonderfully appropriate for the day after Christmas. During the lesson I thought about an experience I had as a missionary that I haven't thought about for a long time:


It was a week or so before Christmas and we got a call from a member asking us to go and visit a family he knew. We stopped by and the parents ushered us back to their daughter's bedroom. There lay a lovely young woman about my own age. Her body was weak and emaciated from the ravishes of cancer and she didn't have the strength to sit up and great us and she could barely manage to speak louder than a whisper.  I sat down on the side of her bed and explained who we were and why we had come to see her. We talked for a few minutes then she looked up at me with her big, beautiful, brown eyes and asked me what was going to happen when she died. I felt the peace of the Spirit come over me as I quietly told her about the Plan of Salvation, the hope of the Atonement, and the promise of resurrection.

I was transferred from that area the day after Christmas and I never saw her again. But I will never forget that moment in that quiet, dimly-lit room when we all felt the burden of death, pain, discouragement, and tragedy lifted though the power of the life and Atonement of Jesus Christ.

That to me is the true meaning of Christmas.

My boyfriend said that celebrate didn't seem like quite the right word to describe how we remember the coming of Him who took the pains and sins of the world so that we would not have to suffer the demands of Justice; of Him who made it possible that we could be resurrected and live for eternity with our families in the presence of God. The appropriate response, he said, would be speechless wonder and silent awe. I've had a quiet afternoon at home and spent hours studying and pondering the Atonement. I think speechless wonder and silent awe pretty well sum up the way I feel now.

Quiet Gentlemen

I am a people watcher.  I enjoy sitting back discreetly and observing humanity and how the interact. Recently I have noticed that there are a lot of quiet gentleman in the world. People who do the simple little things that make a better day for everyone. The people who look behind them and notice if there is someone to hold the door open for. The people who give up their seat on the bus, or let someone else on in front of them at a crowded stop. The people who smile and take the time to chat with the cashier who is checking them out. The people who thank the server and treat them respectfully. Most of the time no one noticed the little things these people do and the definitely don't take the time to thank them. But I notice them and I am grateful them for doing the little things that make this world a better place.

Good morning, Miss Idealism

One of my coworkers walked past my cubical on his way in to work this morning and greeted me with a cheerful "Good morning, Miss Idealism!" He was referring to a meeting we had the day before when I made a suggestion for improvement and everyone essentially patted me on the head and said "look how cute and young and idealistic Amber is - that idea isn't going to work." That sort of things happens fairly often at work and I am starting to get quite the reputation as "the idealistic one."

While is occasionally annoys me to have my ideas brushed aside I realized that I am okay with being "the idealistic one." I do have faith in the general goodness of humanity and I happy to be idealistic, naive, or whatever you want to call it. If I am going to err on one side or the other (and let's face it we all err on a regular basis) I would rather have to much faith in other people instead of being to cynical. So, setting aside the condescension of my coworkers I think I am comfortable with the title "Miss Idealism"

Poetry, Chemistry, and Purpose

Yesterday evening after I got off work, Justin and I went to a reading by the poet Toi Derricotte. While Derricotte is not going to make the ranks of my favorite poets, she had a lot of interesting things to say. There are a lot of things I could write about from the poetry and prose she shared or the conversations Justin and I had after wards about it, but I am going to set most of that aside and just touch on one idea.

As she talk about her poetry, the process of writing, and the way writing had pulled her out of deep depressions you could see in her this innate drive to write. She had to do it, it kept her alive, it was who she was, it was her passion. I wondered what it would be like to be drive by such a strong purpose and passion, then I realized that we all are to some degree. It is more expressed among the writers and artists of the world, but I see no difference between the force that causes a poet to write and the urge that keeps a friend of mine in his chemistry lab all night. The need to create, discover, cultivate, contribute. Whether it is highly visible or not, we all have driving passions in our lives. Things that we do for the sheer joy of doing them or because we feel some sort of urgency or call to do them. They aren't always big things, or things that make sense to anyone else. We may have never articulated these drives, even to ourselves but if we stop and look they are there - and if we haven't looked yet, maybe we should.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RhLlnq5yY7k

I love snow

We got our first snow fall of the winter today. Not more than  a light dusting but enough to make me remember how much I love snow. Often when I vocalize that love I get bombarded with comments like "it's cold and wet" "it makes the roads dangerous" etc, etc. Granted, and the glass is half empty and sunshine gives you cancer too but that isn't a fun way to look at life.

I love snow because it is beautiful. Before a snow the trees are bare and most of the plants have faded from green to brown or completely disappeared into the dreary monotone of November. Then a snow comes and everything is bright again. The snow accentuates every branch and twig and clings to every fence post.

I love snow because it is peaceful. Nothing is as peaceful as a snowy morning. A few inches of fresh snow have fallen over night and it is still lightly snowing. The blanket of snow on the ground and the flakes in the air seem muffle sounds and there is a silence that is hard to find these days. No one is up yet and the layers of snow are unbroken by boots or shovels. Soon enough everyone will be up and the world resumes, but for that moment everything is perfect, pristine, and beautiful.

A sparrow shall not fall

Elder David Bednar taught us: "I have come to better understand that the Lord’s tender mercies are the very personal and individualized blessings, strength, protection, assurances, guidance, loving-kindnesses, consolation, support, and spiritual gifts which we receive from and because of and through the Lord Jesus Christ. Truly, the Lord suits “his mercies according to the conditions of the children of men” (D&C 46:15)."

This morning I randomly woke up in the early hours of the morning, I was awake enough realize that my alarm clock hadn't gone off yet so I didn't need to be awake and decided to go back to sleep when I thought came into my head to double check that my alarm clock was turned on. So I did and sure enough it wasn't. I turned it on and gratefully went back to sleep.  To some that may be nothing more than a coincidence or me subconsciously remembering that I had turned my alarm clock off over Thanksgiving and hadn't turned in on, but to me it was a tender mercy of the Lord. As presumptions as it may sound I believe that the All-Powerful Creator of the Universe cares whether I remembered to turn my alarm clock on or not and if I would sleep in and be late for work. Not because that is a particularly important thing, but because He loves me as He loves all of us and if we pay attention we will see signs of His love in every part of our lives.

Home is... where exactly?

I've been thinking lately about how I used the word 'home.'  For example I spent Thanksgiving at my parent's home in Ohio and in conversation I referred to it as 'going home for Thanksgiving' even though I haven't really lived there since I was 18 (which was more years ago then I care to admit) so is it really 'home'? As I drove to my parents house and saw the familiar streets and landscapes my mind was flooded with memories of growing up and the time I spend there with my parents and brothers had the familiar feeling of being 'home'.

As I drove back and walked into my cozy little apartment in PA I called my boyfriend and announced that I was 'home.' Curling up on my couch, cooking on my kitchen, talking about anything and everything with Justin also had the unmistakable feeling of being 'home'.

About a year ago I went back to visit my alma mater and remember I was wandered around the campus and town and checked in with the professors that were my mentors and best friends I also had that comfortable, safe, and happy feeling of being 'home'.

So where exactly is my home? Maybe the clique 'home is where the heart is' has some truth to it and my heart is slip up in various locations and I have many places to call home.