I believe in recycled wisdom. So my profound thought of the week is a blatant act of theft. Thank you, Aunt Karen, for providing the mental and spiritual stimuli.
You wrote a letter this week that reflects how I have changed, and how I yet hope to change. It is beautiful enough to demand an audience larger than my solitary eyes. Although a mission is the life circumstance of discussion, I find this letter reflective of any woman's walk with Christ:
Dear Sister Stewart,
You asked in your last letter how a mission prepares you for motherhood. I don't think any other experience could be better preparation for motherhood or life in general.
On a mission (again, insert your own life circumstance), you learn to do some very difficult things--AND keep going; you learn to put others first; you learn that the most basic things (here I think of 20-minute naps, healthy snacks, and long walks) make a huge difference; you learn the great value of one person and every person; you learn to work with great strength and diligence; and you learn that you can only rely on the Lord.
The next part of the letter is my favorite. I put in poetic verse because it strikes me as unusually profound:
When a child cries, I know I can take care of them.
When a sick baby needs to be held for days, I know it won't last forever.
When someone asks a question about faith, I know what to answer and I know my answer is true.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Monday, September 9, 2013
Doves, Ducks, and Misheard Prayers
"A good sense of humor helps revelation."
--Elder Richard G. Scott
My comp gave me a supreme compliment during companionship inventory (a sort of weekly "I-love-you;-Please-Be-Better" correction session). She said that I am great at laughing at myself! Haha, this is one of the great gifts of the mission. The days are too long and discouraging without laughter, so I have developed an uncanny knack for making a fool of myself.
In fact, I should provide a small anecdote of my foolery. It may benefit you this day.
Sometimes I forget people's names when we pray with them. This is understandably awkward. Last week I approached a gentleman and misheard both his task and his name. He said he was duck hunting. I prayed that he would do well "dove hunting." (In my head, I wondered why on earth they were wasting bullets on doves. It wasn't until Sister Howard fell into peals of laughter that I realized that he hadn't said "dove" hunting at all.) On top of that, I forgot his name. "Father in Heaven. Please bless Brother...Turner. NO! Brother...Porter?..." That's what I said. Bless my companion, she didn't even help me out. His name was Brother Bradford or something entirely unrelated. At the end of the brief interchange, the unruffled (and uninterested) gentleman said, "Well, bet that's a first. It'll give you something to laugh about in the car later."
And oh, we did so.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Touched By An Angel
If Hallmark films are too much for you, skip this post.
Life is of such a happy nature lately that an honest retelling is bound to resemble a cheesy G-rated film.
When I was a kid, I loved a TV series called Touched By An Angel. Each episode depicted a family in distress, and the saving characters were angels disguised as humans. I loved the angelic stories, and my barbie dolls were consequently named "Monica" after my favorite cherubic hero. At the end of every show, something was revealed about the heroic neighbor to leave the viewer in awe at their suggestively angelic nature.
On P-day, Sister Howard and I were adopted in by a few real-life sisterly angels from Oklahoma. Danyl* and Delora* need no introduction, but I'll give one anyway.
They are true Oklahomans. While I say "we're planning" to do this or that, they are "fixin" to do it. This is the distinguishing linguistic mark of an Oklahoman. Their cars sport Cowboy Church decals. They wear jeans to church. They run a dog rescue on the side of their busy life obligations, and they'll let anyone in their front door...Hence we enter the story.
We knocked on their door three months ago, and Danyl let us in despite the clearly marked "No soliciting sign. I think they put the sign up because they know that they don't have time to love every Girls Scout and Mormon missionary in Lawton. We count ourselves fortunate to be among the sign-disregarding folk.
We handed Books of Mormon around and stayed for an hour discussing the goodness of God. We stopped in occasionally to teach, but little progress was made. We still hope and pray for the door to conversion to open somehow. But meanwhile, Danyl and Delora just spoil us rotten.
Five and one-half hours. That is how long they spent with us on P-day. And when it was time for us to go home, they begged for longer still. After all, they had only taken us to Meers (a Food Network-acclaimed restaurant that pre-dates Oklahoma's statehood...my new favorite joint EVER), to the Holy City (a mountainside city replica of Jerusalem built for an annual Easter pageant), Medicine Park (a hick version of Sundance, UT), and Mount Scott (was it really a mountain? Not a Timpanogos, but certainly the tallest thing I've seen in Oklahoma).
I sat in the back of their car and laughed at their stories and felt Grandmothered. That's not a work, but it's how I felt.
They paid for our food. We couldn't decide what we wanted, so they ordered a little bit of everything.** Then, as if I were not 24 years old and attempting to be mature, they bought t-shirts for us. And we probably squealed a little and ate too much cherry cobbler. We drove through the mountains and went window-shopping and laughed.
And at some point during our journey, I had a revelation. "They're not real! These are actually ANGELS," I thought. And for a moment, I was convinced. Who else could be so impossibly kind to a couple of strangers? I remembered Touched By An Angel, and I laughed at my own thoughts.
The best part of this story is that they are for real. Danyl and Delora actually exist. They are followers of Jesus Christ, and their radically-generous lives are a reflection of the life that our Savior wants us to live.
When we enter into the way of following Jesus Christ, we can "speak the tongue of angels" (2 Nephi 32:1-3). But maybe we can also do the works of angels.
So here's to earthly angels. I'm grateful to be touched by angels, but I also know that I want to be the angel in someone else's life.
Please help me grow my wings!
*Names are changed, as usual. but since they are probably actually angels, I doubt you'd find them in the yellow pages even if I didn't conceal their identities.
**Meers Oh my. Established in 1901. A popular spot for motorcyclists and outdoorsy folk, all nestled up in the mountains. The food is large in portion, heavy in flavor, and ridiculously inexpensive. The drinks come in mason jars, the food on pie pans. Local Texas longhorn provide the meat. The spread--I can't help detailing my food--is as follows: mashed potatoes and country gravy; fried okra; fried green beans; a pie-sized seismic hamburger; brisket; biscuits; ribs; peach cobbler and homemade vanilla ice-cream and banana pudding for a crowd. Welcome to Oklahoma, where health is secondary to happiness.
Life is of such a happy nature lately that an honest retelling is bound to resemble a cheesy G-rated film.
When I was a kid, I loved a TV series called Touched By An Angel. Each episode depicted a family in distress, and the saving characters were angels disguised as humans. I loved the angelic stories, and my barbie dolls were consequently named "Monica" after my favorite cherubic hero. At the end of every show, something was revealed about the heroic neighbor to leave the viewer in awe at their suggestively angelic nature.
On P-day, Sister Howard and I were adopted in by a few real-life sisterly angels from Oklahoma. Danyl* and Delora* need no introduction, but I'll give one anyway.
They are true Oklahomans. While I say "we're planning" to do this or that, they are "fixin" to do it. This is the distinguishing linguistic mark of an Oklahoman. Their cars sport Cowboy Church decals. They wear jeans to church. They run a dog rescue on the side of their busy life obligations, and they'll let anyone in their front door...Hence we enter the story.
We knocked on their door three months ago, and Danyl let us in despite the clearly marked "No soliciting sign. I think they put the sign up because they know that they don't have time to love every Girls Scout and Mormon missionary in Lawton. We count ourselves fortunate to be among the sign-disregarding folk.
We handed Books of Mormon around and stayed for an hour discussing the goodness of God. We stopped in occasionally to teach, but little progress was made. We still hope and pray for the door to conversion to open somehow. But meanwhile, Danyl and Delora just spoil us rotten.
Five and one-half hours. That is how long they spent with us on P-day. And when it was time for us to go home, they begged for longer still. After all, they had only taken us to Meers (a Food Network-acclaimed restaurant that pre-dates Oklahoma's statehood...my new favorite joint EVER), to the Holy City (a mountainside city replica of Jerusalem built for an annual Easter pageant), Medicine Park (a hick version of Sundance, UT), and Mount Scott (was it really a mountain? Not a Timpanogos, but certainly the tallest thing I've seen in Oklahoma).
I sat in the back of their car and laughed at their stories and felt Grandmothered. That's not a work, but it's how I felt.
They paid for our food. We couldn't decide what we wanted, so they ordered a little bit of everything.** Then, as if I were not 24 years old and attempting to be mature, they bought t-shirts for us. And we probably squealed a little and ate too much cherry cobbler. We drove through the mountains and went window-shopping and laughed.
And at some point during our journey, I had a revelation. "They're not real! These are actually ANGELS," I thought. And for a moment, I was convinced. Who else could be so impossibly kind to a couple of strangers? I remembered Touched By An Angel, and I laughed at my own thoughts.
The best part of this story is that they are for real. Danyl and Delora actually exist. They are followers of Jesus Christ, and their radically-generous lives are a reflection of the life that our Savior wants us to live.
When we enter into the way of following Jesus Christ, we can "speak the tongue of angels" (2 Nephi 32:1-3). But maybe we can also do the works of angels.
So here's to earthly angels. I'm grateful to be touched by angels, but I also know that I want to be the angel in someone else's life.
Please help me grow my wings!
*Names are changed, as usual. but since they are probably actually angels, I doubt you'd find them in the yellow pages even if I didn't conceal their identities.
**Meers Oh my. Established in 1901. A popular spot for motorcyclists and outdoorsy folk, all nestled up in the mountains. The food is large in portion, heavy in flavor, and ridiculously inexpensive. The drinks come in mason jars, the food on pie pans. Local Texas longhorn provide the meat. The spread--I can't help detailing my food--is as follows: mashed potatoes and country gravy; fried okra; fried green beans; a pie-sized seismic hamburger; brisket; biscuits; ribs; peach cobbler and homemade vanilla ice-cream and banana pudding for a crowd. Welcome to Oklahoma, where health is secondary to happiness.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
The Fifth Commandment
Indulge me, if you will, in a little Exodus 20:12.
This attempt to "honor (my) father and (my) mother" will perhaps expose me to incredulity from my readers. "You think of your parents so often?" you may say. I do. Creepy, but most everything that I love reminds me of home. I think about my father and my mother every day, many times a day.
I thought of them on August 24th. I was sitting in a booth with members at a little roadside Mexican restaurant when I remembered that it was their wedding anniversary. Their fist date was at a Mexican restaurant. Is it any surprise that I think with some tenderness about Mexican restaurants? Later in the day, I found myself staring at farmhouses and imaging the spot in Jerome, Idaho, where my mom finally said, "Ask me one more time," to her suitor's frequent petitions for marriage. Dad's eyes would have welled up with tears like they do, and then it was just a hop, skip, and a jump to a family of four. Maybe they were too young to start a family at 18 and 21, but I find it adorable, and courageous too.
I thought of them when the senior couple on Fort Sill sat down with us for a post-dinner thought. Elder Tomany looked at his wife wistfully, and then removed his glasses to wipe tears from his eyes. "I love her more after 42 years than I ever loved her," he said. "I tell her that I love her at least a dozen times a day." That's how my dad is. He adores my mom, and he's not shy about confessing his love on a daily basis. She deserves it too. I can't imagine a more romantic couple than my own parents.
I thought of my parents when we visited an ailing gentlemen in the hospital. I was nervous to meet my investigator's brother-in-law and his wife unannounced, but we forged a happy connection when conversation turned to dogs, horses, and the glories of a small acreage. I don't own dogs or horses or land of any size, but I was weaned on James Herriott, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and Organic Gardening. Gathering in the living room to listen to dad read is paying dividends. My parents didn't know it, but they raised a sister missionary who melts in with the rural folks of Oklahoma with ease.
If the fifth commandment has anything to do with remembering, loving, or feeling grateful, then I would like to count myself obedient. But I ought to say it a thousand times more gracefully and more often. I love you, Mom and Dad. I am grateful for you. And I remember you!
Happy Anniversary!
This attempt to "honor (my) father and (my) mother" will perhaps expose me to incredulity from my readers. "You think of your parents so often?" you may say. I do. Creepy, but most everything that I love reminds me of home. I think about my father and my mother every day, many times a day.
I thought of them on August 24th. I was sitting in a booth with members at a little roadside Mexican restaurant when I remembered that it was their wedding anniversary. Their fist date was at a Mexican restaurant. Is it any surprise that I think with some tenderness about Mexican restaurants? Later in the day, I found myself staring at farmhouses and imaging the spot in Jerome, Idaho, where my mom finally said, "Ask me one more time," to her suitor's frequent petitions for marriage. Dad's eyes would have welled up with tears like they do, and then it was just a hop, skip, and a jump to a family of four. Maybe they were too young to start a family at 18 and 21, but I find it adorable, and courageous too.
I thought of them when the senior couple on Fort Sill sat down with us for a post-dinner thought. Elder Tomany looked at his wife wistfully, and then removed his glasses to wipe tears from his eyes. "I love her more after 42 years than I ever loved her," he said. "I tell her that I love her at least a dozen times a day." That's how my dad is. He adores my mom, and he's not shy about confessing his love on a daily basis. She deserves it too. I can't imagine a more romantic couple than my own parents.
I thought of my parents when we visited an ailing gentlemen in the hospital. I was nervous to meet my investigator's brother-in-law and his wife unannounced, but we forged a happy connection when conversation turned to dogs, horses, and the glories of a small acreage. I don't own dogs or horses or land of any size, but I was weaned on James Herriott, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and Organic Gardening. Gathering in the living room to listen to dad read is paying dividends. My parents didn't know it, but they raised a sister missionary who melts in with the rural folks of Oklahoma with ease.
If the fifth commandment has anything to do with remembering, loving, or feeling grateful, then I would like to count myself obedient. But I ought to say it a thousand times more gracefully and more often. I love you, Mom and Dad. I am grateful for you. And I remember you!
Happy Anniversary!
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Evidences That God Loves Me
1. Finding a family of five to teach! Three little girls who draw pictures and sing "Popcorn Popping," and two parents who love each other and work hard and probably deal with more than their fair share of life's challenges.
2. Mail. Have I ever paused to say that my mail correspondents are hands-down amazing? There is a special place in heaven reserved for those who write to missionaries. And for those who send pictures and packages...just hop on the chariot, because you just made the fast-track to the Pearly Gates. Thank you dear friends and family, for news, and love, and prayers!
3. A car. I shouldn't admit this, but I avoid riding my bike at all costs. The whole skirt thing...and then the helmet thing...and then they expect me to look CUTE?! Yeah, right. So I drive a care with utmost gratitude. Thank you, dear missionary department, for allotting our mission a decent fleet of cars.
4. Scriptures. The most restful time of day is the sacred hour between 8 and 9 am. I like to be alone with the Lord, and that is the hour of our finest quality time. This week I am enamored with the Book of Acts. How did I exist for 24 years without knowing Philip's story? Or feeling the excitement of Peters's vision of the gospel going to all the dearth?* God bless the tremendous souls who lived and recorded these sacred words!
5. Elders. They exasperate, humiliate, humor, and bless. They get in the car and say "yes, Mom," when we do a seat-belt check. Then they encourage me to race the neighboring car at every stoplight (is it any wonder that I am the designated driver?) . They throw tortillas at us and leave scary scriptures at or doorstep. But they also give blessings and share investigators and give inspired instruction.
6. Lawton, Oklahoma. I love this place. And I get to stay for at least six more weeks!! Huzzah for no transfer!!
*http://www.lds.org/bible-videos/videos/peters-revelation-to-take-the-gospel-to-the-gentiles?lang=eng
2. Mail. Have I ever paused to say that my mail correspondents are hands-down amazing? There is a special place in heaven reserved for those who write to missionaries. And for those who send pictures and packages...just hop on the chariot, because you just made the fast-track to the Pearly Gates. Thank you dear friends and family, for news, and love, and prayers!
3. A car. I shouldn't admit this, but I avoid riding my bike at all costs. The whole skirt thing...and then the helmet thing...and then they expect me to look CUTE?! Yeah, right. So I drive a care with utmost gratitude. Thank you, dear missionary department, for allotting our mission a decent fleet of cars.
4. Scriptures. The most restful time of day is the sacred hour between 8 and 9 am. I like to be alone with the Lord, and that is the hour of our finest quality time. This week I am enamored with the Book of Acts. How did I exist for 24 years without knowing Philip's story? Or feeling the excitement of Peters's vision of the gospel going to all the dearth?* God bless the tremendous souls who lived and recorded these sacred words!
5. Elders. They exasperate, humiliate, humor, and bless. They get in the car and say "yes, Mom," when we do a seat-belt check. Then they encourage me to race the neighboring car at every stoplight (is it any wonder that I am the designated driver?) . They throw tortillas at us and leave scary scriptures at or doorstep. But they also give blessings and share investigators and give inspired instruction.
6. Lawton, Oklahoma. I love this place. And I get to stay for at least six more weeks!! Huzzah for no transfer!!
*http://www.lds.org/bible-videos/videos/peters-revelation-to-take-the-gospel-to-the-gentiles?lang=eng
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
A Better Pitch **
Dear You,
And me. Really, this lesson is for all of us.
I've got a problem. The gospel of Jesus Christ has been restored, and I have something burning inside of me to share. I suspect that you've got a little ember inside of you, too. But let's be honest. Most people aren't interested.
I saw a Vivint salesman this week. I gave him a water bottle (my sympathy was aroused for this fellow sweaty sojourner in the hot Oklahoma sun), and he beat it out of sight before I had time to testify. But he got me thinking about how I am presenting my message. "I've got to go save babies," he said to make his escape. His pitch was perfectly suited for the young mothers in the neighborhood.
How am I pitching the gospel message? The words of my 8th grade English teacher are resurrected in my mind every day: KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE.
Maybe your audience is as wonderfully difficult as mine- wonderful because they are good, happy, prosperous people. Difficult because they are good, happy, and prosperous...just the sort of people that are content without any additional religion in their lives.
The pitch for these good folk cannot be "You need us." They clearly don't. But what if we switched things around and said "We need you?" Because we really do.
President Thomas S. Monson tells the story of a Mission President in Canada who sent his missionaries forth with a specific purpose: to find and convert the individuals that they needed to build a chapel. They did so, and the miraculous story is a legend in the church today. The early saints lived similar stories. The prophet sent missionaries to Europe to find and convert architects, stone masons, and other particularly gifted individuals. God prepared those good people to help build His kingdom.
God is preparing good people today to receive the message of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and to be benefited thereby. But perhaps it is more significant to remember that He is preparing them to receive His restored gospel and to contribute to it! They will recognize the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints as the Lord's Kingdom in these latter days inasmuch as we are becoming living invitations of Mark 8:35: "For whosoever will save his life shall lose it; but whosoever shall lose his life for my sake and the gospel's, the same shall save it."
Consider the less-active woman who refused to come to church. Sister White* was a former Relief Society President and an avid family historian, but she never came to church. She was a faithful visiting teacher and kept the Ensign on her dining room table. Still, no church. We were boggled by her. But then we found an investigator who needed to learn about family history, so we invited Sister White to come with us. And when our sweet investigator expressed concern about going to church alone, Sister White finally stepped up to the plate. She wasn't tempted by any of our wily invitations and pushy commendations to come to church, but something changed within her when she felt needed.
Louise Grimm* was a similar story. When we first met her, I thought she'd never be baptized. I'm sure she thought the same thing, because she was old and very happy with her own church and lifestyle. But we came back week after week, and finally she came to church. Afterward she said, "Who was that little girl that sat in front of me in church?" Well, I'll be dashed if I remembered who that little girl was--there were about a million of them running around sacrament meeting--but we managed to identify the child in question. "Does she like hair bows?" Louise said. I assured her that all little girls like hair bows, and we promptly invited the little tow-headed girl and her mother to visit Louise with us the following week. We arrived to find a dozen perfect bows for the little girl and her sisters. Over and over in the weeks that followed, Louise would ask who so-and-so was, and then she would craft something for them. She learned to love the ward, and she felt needed. She was baptized in June.
Now we are teaching a wonderful Christian lady who is very happy with her own church. She has Christ in her life. She'll read the Book of Mormon and she loves us to visit, but she sees no need to be baptized. And I ask myself, what is to be done for Delize*? She identified the solution when we visited her on Friday. "Some people look at things and say, 'What can I get from this,' she said, 'But I look around and wonder what I can give.'" And so I am making a mental list. On one column is the name of the less-active or investigating individuals, along with their unique gifts and talents. On the other side are the needs of the ward. All we have to do is connect the dots. What can these good people give?
Those whom God has prepared have gifts to share. Search for them. Show them how to contribute.They will strengthen our wards, enliven our vision, and join the leadership of God's church. Invite your marvelous Bible-savvy Christian friend to help you teach Primary. Ask your whiz coworker to allow your young men into his science laboratory for mutual. Petition your professional painter neighbor to help the Elder's Quorum refinish a widow's house.
As Elder Holland recently reminded us, "we're not baptizing people into the church of happy families or the church of the Tabernacle Choir...or the entire BYU athletic program, beloved as all of those may be." This is the Church of Jesus Christ, and the way to invite people to join the church is by following His example. This is His church, and He wills show us how to build His Kingdom.
I'm changing my pitch. It's no longer "Here's my church and it can help you," but, "Here's the kingdom of God, and you can help Him!" That is what we want, and what we are made for. To give back to the God who gave us life.
Share with your neighbors. Look at their talents and gifts, and ask yourself how God might have prepared them to build His kingdom. Then invite. Catch the wave!***
*As usual, names have been changed.
**Inspired by -- indeed, nearly a plagiarisation of Elder Clayton Christensen's 2011 Summer Summit presentation to Young Single Adults in Salt Lake City, Utah
***http://www.lds.org/general-conference/2013/04/catch-the-wave?lang=eng
And me. Really, this lesson is for all of us.
I've got a problem. The gospel of Jesus Christ has been restored, and I have something burning inside of me to share. I suspect that you've got a little ember inside of you, too. But let's be honest. Most people aren't interested.
I saw a Vivint salesman this week. I gave him a water bottle (my sympathy was aroused for this fellow sweaty sojourner in the hot Oklahoma sun), and he beat it out of sight before I had time to testify. But he got me thinking about how I am presenting my message. "I've got to go save babies," he said to make his escape. His pitch was perfectly suited for the young mothers in the neighborhood.
How am I pitching the gospel message? The words of my 8th grade English teacher are resurrected in my mind every day: KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE.
Maybe your audience is as wonderfully difficult as mine- wonderful because they are good, happy, prosperous people. Difficult because they are good, happy, and prosperous...just the sort of people that are content without any additional religion in their lives.
The pitch for these good folk cannot be "You need us." They clearly don't. But what if we switched things around and said "We need you?" Because we really do.
President Thomas S. Monson tells the story of a Mission President in Canada who sent his missionaries forth with a specific purpose: to find and convert the individuals that they needed to build a chapel. They did so, and the miraculous story is a legend in the church today. The early saints lived similar stories. The prophet sent missionaries to Europe to find and convert architects, stone masons, and other particularly gifted individuals. God prepared those good people to help build His kingdom.
God is preparing good people today to receive the message of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and to be benefited thereby. But perhaps it is more significant to remember that He is preparing them to receive His restored gospel and to contribute to it! They will recognize the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints as the Lord's Kingdom in these latter days inasmuch as we are becoming living invitations of Mark 8:35: "For whosoever will save his life shall lose it; but whosoever shall lose his life for my sake and the gospel's, the same shall save it."
Consider the less-active woman who refused to come to church. Sister White* was a former Relief Society President and an avid family historian, but she never came to church. She was a faithful visiting teacher and kept the Ensign on her dining room table. Still, no church. We were boggled by her. But then we found an investigator who needed to learn about family history, so we invited Sister White to come with us. And when our sweet investigator expressed concern about going to church alone, Sister White finally stepped up to the plate. She wasn't tempted by any of our wily invitations and pushy commendations to come to church, but something changed within her when she felt needed.
Louise Grimm* was a similar story. When we first met her, I thought she'd never be baptized. I'm sure she thought the same thing, because she was old and very happy with her own church and lifestyle. But we came back week after week, and finally she came to church. Afterward she said, "Who was that little girl that sat in front of me in church?" Well, I'll be dashed if I remembered who that little girl was--there were about a million of them running around sacrament meeting--but we managed to identify the child in question. "Does she like hair bows?" Louise said. I assured her that all little girls like hair bows, and we promptly invited the little tow-headed girl and her mother to visit Louise with us the following week. We arrived to find a dozen perfect bows for the little girl and her sisters. Over and over in the weeks that followed, Louise would ask who so-and-so was, and then she would craft something for them. She learned to love the ward, and she felt needed. She was baptized in June.
Now we are teaching a wonderful Christian lady who is very happy with her own church. She has Christ in her life. She'll read the Book of Mormon and she loves us to visit, but she sees no need to be baptized. And I ask myself, what is to be done for Delize*? She identified the solution when we visited her on Friday. "Some people look at things and say, 'What can I get from this,' she said, 'But I look around and wonder what I can give.'" And so I am making a mental list. On one column is the name of the less-active or investigating individuals, along with their unique gifts and talents. On the other side are the needs of the ward. All we have to do is connect the dots. What can these good people give?
Those whom God has prepared have gifts to share. Search for them. Show them how to contribute.They will strengthen our wards, enliven our vision, and join the leadership of God's church. Invite your marvelous Bible-savvy Christian friend to help you teach Primary. Ask your whiz coworker to allow your young men into his science laboratory for mutual. Petition your professional painter neighbor to help the Elder's Quorum refinish a widow's house.
As Elder Holland recently reminded us, "we're not baptizing people into the church of happy families or the church of the Tabernacle Choir...or the entire BYU athletic program, beloved as all of those may be." This is the Church of Jesus Christ, and the way to invite people to join the church is by following His example. This is His church, and He wills show us how to build His Kingdom.
I'm changing my pitch. It's no longer "Here's my church and it can help you," but, "Here's the kingdom of God, and you can help Him!" That is what we want, and what we are made for. To give back to the God who gave us life.
Share with your neighbors. Look at their talents and gifts, and ask yourself how God might have prepared them to build His kingdom. Then invite. Catch the wave!***
*As usual, names have been changed.
**Inspired by -- indeed, nearly a plagiarisation of Elder Clayton Christensen's 2011 Summer Summit presentation to Young Single Adults in Salt Lake City, Utah
***http://www.lds.org/general-conference/2013/04/catch-the-wave?lang=eng
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Of Construction Workers and Virtue
Virtue is the power that flowed from Jesus Christ when a woman with an issue of blood reached for the hem of his garment.
It is the repeated focus of General Authorities, recently added to the list of Young Women's values.
It is the vital prerequisite to Priesthood power.
It is the power by which Sister missionaries are made to do bold things.
At first when I saw the group of construction workers, I ignored them. My companion did the same. We shared an unspoken understanding that these men were an exception to the cardinal missionary rule to "open your mouth." But the Spirit gnawed at me, and I felt guilty for breaking my personal creed to talk to everyone. So we turned around.
Eight men. Eight blue jump suits. A water project slowly under way. Probably not the sort of men that single girls should approach. They laughed and stared as we approached. I felt like a little girl in my daisy skirt and flat slipper-shoes. The braid around my head and my backpack stuffed with scriptures often leads people to take me for a highschooler. But the badge on my chest with the name "Jesus Christ" put a little fire in my bones.
"Hello," I called out. I inquired on the project. A few replied, a few laughed. "We are missionaries, and we couldn't pass you by without offering to pray." One of them agreed, probably as a joke. But I don't joke about prayer. "What can we pray for?" I insisted. A generalized response was replied. But these men had families and wives, the Spirit said. "How about your families? May I pray for them? Goodness knows that you have an important job as fathers and husbands," I said. They consented. We held hands in a great big circle, and I acted as voice.
The entire interaction was probably only five minutes long, but it stands out to me as the most significant five minutes of my week. None of the men accepted our follow-up invitation to share a message about Jesus Christ with their families, and none of them took a pass-along card. They laughed in an ungentlemanly way when we left. But for 35 seconds, I felt the Spirit as we prayed with eight men. I knew that God loved them. I felt a vision that God had better plans for these men and for their families. And I knew that there are no exceptions to the rule to open my mouth.
God loves all of his children. There is power in virtue.
I am grateful to be a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
It is the repeated focus of General Authorities, recently added to the list of Young Women's values.
It is the vital prerequisite to Priesthood power.
It is the power by which Sister missionaries are made to do bold things.
At first when I saw the group of construction workers, I ignored them. My companion did the same. We shared an unspoken understanding that these men were an exception to the cardinal missionary rule to "open your mouth." But the Spirit gnawed at me, and I felt guilty for breaking my personal creed to talk to everyone. So we turned around.
Eight men. Eight blue jump suits. A water project slowly under way. Probably not the sort of men that single girls should approach. They laughed and stared as we approached. I felt like a little girl in my daisy skirt and flat slipper-shoes. The braid around my head and my backpack stuffed with scriptures often leads people to take me for a highschooler. But the badge on my chest with the name "Jesus Christ" put a little fire in my bones.
"Hello," I called out. I inquired on the project. A few replied, a few laughed. "We are missionaries, and we couldn't pass you by without offering to pray." One of them agreed, probably as a joke. But I don't joke about prayer. "What can we pray for?" I insisted. A generalized response was replied. But these men had families and wives, the Spirit said. "How about your families? May I pray for them? Goodness knows that you have an important job as fathers and husbands," I said. They consented. We held hands in a great big circle, and I acted as voice.
The entire interaction was probably only five minutes long, but it stands out to me as the most significant five minutes of my week. None of the men accepted our follow-up invitation to share a message about Jesus Christ with their families, and none of them took a pass-along card. They laughed in an ungentlemanly way when we left. But for 35 seconds, I felt the Spirit as we prayed with eight men. I knew that God loved them. I felt a vision that God had better plans for these men and for their families. And I knew that there are no exceptions to the rule to open my mouth.
God loves all of his children. There is power in virtue.
I am grateful to be a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
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