1. The Man in the Minivan
The entire car smells like some hellish combination of Cheerios and McDonald's. "Let It Go" is blasting from the radio. Kids are screaming. Boogers are flying. Diapers are stinking. Needless to say, my manhood has been insulted. Watch out 'cause I'm driving with a vengeance and something to prove. Not to mention we're late for soccer practice.
2. The Young Prissy Woman
I am perfectly justified in my right to blast music that objectifies me and smack my gum and coat my eyelashes and text on my iPhone and fix my hair and check myself out in my rearview mirror and drink my coffee and take a selfie at the stoplight and change the song 10,695 times and slam on my gas and slam on my brakes and drive like FREAKING CRUELLA DEVILLE!
3. The Car That's Had Its Blinker on for 5 Solid Minutes
I'm not really sure what's going on or where I'm going or what my name is, but I'll bet you $50 that I'll realize it's time to exit the freeway the moment you drive into my blind spot.
4. The Semi-Truck Driver
Everything about me is large and in charge and if you're in my way, well, I'm sorry, but frankly my dear, I don't even care.
5. The Expensive and Glitzy Sports Car/Unnaturally Jacked Up Truck
I sold my soul to drive in a car that looks this good so let's just say I'm not about to let you pass me unless you look about as good as I do, which is impossible, so don't even try or even think about trying.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Spiritual Stitches
Last weekend, two things happened: First, it was the weekend of General Conference, a semi-annual event for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints where, over the span of two days, our leaders give us spiritually instructive messages broken down into four, two-hour sessions. Second, I got ten stitches in my knee and it turned out to be an experience that was unconventionally special.
This was my first time getting stitches ever in my whole life. I have also never broke a bone, but I pray that is a record I will never break. (Haha. Get it? Break?) Anyway, how it happened is I was running along an asphalt trail, when suddenly I tripped on who knows what and slammed down into a broken chunk of the trail. My whole body started shaking as I stood up and lifted up my pants to survey the damage. What I saw almost made me puke: There was a gaping hole in my knee, so deep that I could see the fat. Long rivers of blood coursed down my leg. I had no phone with me and I was a mile and a half away from home, so I was forced to focus all of my mental faculties on staying calm and walking back one step at a time.
About two hours later, I was lying on an emergency room bed with a PA bent over my knee, weaving his silver contraption in and out of my shredded flesh. Thankfully, my mom was with me, sitting next to the bed. We decided to turn the television on to watch conference, since my hospital visit had extended into the Saturday Afternoon Session.
There was a certain degree of hilarity to the whole situation. There I was, unbathed and sweaty, lying in an emergency room because I had tripped on practically nothing. One nurse had dumped copious amounts of salt water into my wound, another nurse had pulled down my pants to give me a tetanus shot. I hadn't shaved my legs in a while, yet everyone in the hospital was examining them, up close and personal, hairs and all. Zero dignity. Zero. And, through it all, General Conference continued to play on, showing speakers dressed in their Sunday best and delivering profoundly articulate and composed messages that contrasted sharply against my slightly pathetic circumstances, circumstances under which I never would have imagined I could feel close to God.
Yet somehow I did. Maybe it was because ripping open my knee had humbled me enough to finally open my eyes to the fact that I was becoming blinded with worldly aspirations. Maybe it was because getting stitches was a startling awakening to my own human frailty. Maybe it was because I finally let myself be vulnerable, forced to surrender myself into the hands of those who knew so much more than I.
Whatever it was, listening to the conference messages in that room made me feel I was not only being stitched up physically, but also spiritually. The messages touched my soul in places I had not realized were wounded until I felt the pang of healing flowing into them. It was like drinking a glass of cool water after spending hours in the sun. The words were literally healing me from the inside out.
Of course, this healing process is not over and complete with the conclusion of General Conference. Just like with my stitches, I must continue to care for my spiritual wounds and make sure they heal properly. I must keep trying to be better than I was yesterday. Everyday I must cleanse my soul and rub the ointment of faith and devotion on my wounds to avoid infection. It takes work, a lot of it, but it is the most worthwhile thing I will ever do.
One of the messages that really stuck with me was Elder Jeffrey R. Holland's talk. I can still hear the conviction in his voice spilling over the hospital speaker as he spoke the following words in his talk, "Are We Not All Beggars?":
"For one thing we can, as King Benjamin taught, cease withholding our means because we see the poor as having brought their misery upon themselves. Perhaps some have created their own difficulties, but don’t the rest of us do exactly the same thing? Isn’t that why this compassionate ruler asks, “Are we not all beggars?” Don’t we all cry out for help and hope and answers to prayers? Don’t we all beg for forgiveness for mistakes we have made and troubles we have caused? Don’t we all implore that grace will compensate for our weaknesses, that mercy will triumph over justice at least in our case? Little wonder that King Benjamin says we obtain a remission of our sins by pleading to God, who compassionately responds, but we retain a remission of our sins by compassionately responding to the poor who plead to us.
. . .
In that regard, I pay a personal tribute to President Thomas Spencer Monson. I have been blessed by an association with this man for 47 years now, and the image of him I will cherish until I die is of him flying home from then–economically devastated East Germany in his house slippers because he had given away not only his second suit and his extra shirts but the very shoes from off his feet. “How beautiful upon the mountains [and shuffling through an airline terminal] are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace.” More than any man I know, President Monson has “done all he could” for the widow and the fatherless, the poor and the oppressed."
—Elder Jeffrey R. Holland
We must work to stitch up each other. We must work to stitch up ourselves. We must be humble and obedient enough to allow the love of God and Jesus Christ to stitch up our souls—they know so much more than we do.
We need to spend less time condemning each other, and more time lifting each other.
After all, are we not all beggars before God?
This was my first time getting stitches ever in my whole life. I have also never broke a bone, but I pray that is a record I will never break. (Haha. Get it? Break?) Anyway, how it happened is I was running along an asphalt trail, when suddenly I tripped on who knows what and slammed down into a broken chunk of the trail. My whole body started shaking as I stood up and lifted up my pants to survey the damage. What I saw almost made me puke: There was a gaping hole in my knee, so deep that I could see the fat. Long rivers of blood coursed down my leg. I had no phone with me and I was a mile and a half away from home, so I was forced to focus all of my mental faculties on staying calm and walking back one step at a time.
About two hours later, I was lying on an emergency room bed with a PA bent over my knee, weaving his silver contraption in and out of my shredded flesh. Thankfully, my mom was with me, sitting next to the bed. We decided to turn the television on to watch conference, since my hospital visit had extended into the Saturday Afternoon Session.
There was a certain degree of hilarity to the whole situation. There I was, unbathed and sweaty, lying in an emergency room because I had tripped on practically nothing. One nurse had dumped copious amounts of salt water into my wound, another nurse had pulled down my pants to give me a tetanus shot. I hadn't shaved my legs in a while, yet everyone in the hospital was examining them, up close and personal, hairs and all. Zero dignity. Zero. And, through it all, General Conference continued to play on, showing speakers dressed in their Sunday best and delivering profoundly articulate and composed messages that contrasted sharply against my slightly pathetic circumstances, circumstances under which I never would have imagined I could feel close to God.
Yet somehow I did. Maybe it was because ripping open my knee had humbled me enough to finally open my eyes to the fact that I was becoming blinded with worldly aspirations. Maybe it was because getting stitches was a startling awakening to my own human frailty. Maybe it was because I finally let myself be vulnerable, forced to surrender myself into the hands of those who knew so much more than I.
Whatever it was, listening to the conference messages in that room made me feel I was not only being stitched up physically, but also spiritually. The messages touched my soul in places I had not realized were wounded until I felt the pang of healing flowing into them. It was like drinking a glass of cool water after spending hours in the sun. The words were literally healing me from the inside out.
Of course, this healing process is not over and complete with the conclusion of General Conference. Just like with my stitches, I must continue to care for my spiritual wounds and make sure they heal properly. I must keep trying to be better than I was yesterday. Everyday I must cleanse my soul and rub the ointment of faith and devotion on my wounds to avoid infection. It takes work, a lot of it, but it is the most worthwhile thing I will ever do.
One of the messages that really stuck with me was Elder Jeffrey R. Holland's talk. I can still hear the conviction in his voice spilling over the hospital speaker as he spoke the following words in his talk, "Are We Not All Beggars?":
"For one thing we can, as King Benjamin taught, cease withholding our means because we see the poor as having brought their misery upon themselves. Perhaps some have created their own difficulties, but don’t the rest of us do exactly the same thing? Isn’t that why this compassionate ruler asks, “Are we not all beggars?” Don’t we all cry out for help and hope and answers to prayers? Don’t we all beg for forgiveness for mistakes we have made and troubles we have caused? Don’t we all implore that grace will compensate for our weaknesses, that mercy will triumph over justice at least in our case? Little wonder that King Benjamin says we obtain a remission of our sins by pleading to God, who compassionately responds, but we retain a remission of our sins by compassionately responding to the poor who plead to us.
. . .
In that regard, I pay a personal tribute to President Thomas Spencer Monson. I have been blessed by an association with this man for 47 years now, and the image of him I will cherish until I die is of him flying home from then–economically devastated East Germany in his house slippers because he had given away not only his second suit and his extra shirts but the very shoes from off his feet. “How beautiful upon the mountains [and shuffling through an airline terminal] are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace.” More than any man I know, President Monson has “done all he could” for the widow and the fatherless, the poor and the oppressed."
—Elder Jeffrey R. Holland
We must work to stitch up each other. We must work to stitch up ourselves. We must be humble and obedient enough to allow the love of God and Jesus Christ to stitch up our souls—they know so much more than we do.
We need to spend less time condemning each other, and more time lifting each other.
After all, are we not all beggars before God?
The Joy of Spam
Sometimes you have got to wonder what is going through the mind of the poor souls that write spam emails. Take this one for example:
Subject: Married AND dating! Life is short, have an affair!
I mean, really. Let's just abandon all notions of dignity and morality and advocate the basest actions of human nature. Do they honestly think that anyone is going to fall for this stuff? I guess the fact that they continue to do it is an indication that some people do fall for it, which is a very sad and frustrating thing, and also slightly inconceivable that such an offer could merit any degree of legitimate attention.
However, this email did make me laugh for a good five minutes, so I guess it's not all bad.
Subject: Married AND dating! Life is short, have an affair!
I mean, really. Let's just abandon all notions of dignity and morality and advocate the basest actions of human nature. Do they honestly think that anyone is going to fall for this stuff? I guess the fact that they continue to do it is an indication that some people do fall for it, which is a very sad and frustrating thing, and also slightly inconceivable that such an offer could merit any degree of legitimate attention.
However, this email did make me laugh for a good five minutes, so I guess it's not all bad.
Learning to Listen
This is from one of my favorite books, The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein. The book is told from the perspective of the family's dog, so keep that in mind while reading this quote:
"Here's why I will be a good person. Because I listen. I cannot talk, so I listen very well. I never deflect the course of the conversation with a comment of my own. People, if you pay attention to them, change the direction of one another's conversations constantly. It's like being a passenger in your car who suddenly grabs the steering wheel and turns you down a side street.
For instance, if we met at a party and I wanted to tell you a story about the time I needed to get a soccer ball in my neighbor's yard but his dog chased me and I had to jump into a swimming pool to escape, and I began telling the story, you, hearing the words "soccer" and "neighbor" in the same sentence, might interrupt and mention that your childhood neighbor was Pele, the famous soccer player, and I might be courteous and say, Didn't he play for the Cosmos of New York? Did you grow up in New York? And you might reply that, no, you grew up in Brazil on the streets of Tres Coracoes with Pele, and I might say, I thought you were from Tennessee, and you might say not originally, and then go on to outline your genealogy at length.
So my initial conversational gambit—that I had a funny story about being chased by my neighbor's dog— would be totally lost, and only because you had to tell me all about Pele. Learn to listen! I beg of you. Pretend you are a dog like me and listen to other people rather than steal their stories."
"Here's why I will be a good person. Because I listen. I cannot talk, so I listen very well. I never deflect the course of the conversation with a comment of my own. People, if you pay attention to them, change the direction of one another's conversations constantly. It's like being a passenger in your car who suddenly grabs the steering wheel and turns you down a side street.
For instance, if we met at a party and I wanted to tell you a story about the time I needed to get a soccer ball in my neighbor's yard but his dog chased me and I had to jump into a swimming pool to escape, and I began telling the story, you, hearing the words "soccer" and "neighbor" in the same sentence, might interrupt and mention that your childhood neighbor was Pele, the famous soccer player, and I might be courteous and say, Didn't he play for the Cosmos of New York? Did you grow up in New York? And you might reply that, no, you grew up in Brazil on the streets of Tres Coracoes with Pele, and I might say, I thought you were from Tennessee, and you might say not originally, and then go on to outline your genealogy at length.
So my initial conversational gambit—that I had a funny story about being chased by my neighbor's dog— would be totally lost, and only because you had to tell me all about Pele. Learn to listen! I beg of you. Pretend you are a dog like me and listen to other people rather than steal their stories."
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