Letting Go

It's all about timing.  

There are things I want and can't have right now.

There are things I need and can't see how this or that will be taken care of yet.

There are hopes in my heart that I can't hear the song for yet.

Sometimes, when I am thinking about those things (and it has been a few several days for me on that boat lately) (Did you like my few/several combo? Cuz I did, and DO), I start to feel frustrated.

Maybe frustrated isn't even the right word.

Doubtful?

Discouraged?

Sad?

Those might be better words for the emotions that come. 

And I know it's about timing.  It always comes down to that.  It's funny (maddening) that you can know that, and really know that, but still have a hard time letting go.

Letting go of expectations, of whatever story I want to write.

Letting go of any control I think I have, cuz that's the real irony...I don't have it anyway!

And instead...

Letting things happen as they will.  

Trusting that things work out, because, somehow, they always do.

Allowing certain pieces to come to fruition in their time.

Today and tonight I'm trying to move myself to the latter position and rest there.

Haven't arrived yet --- but.

 I'm trying to get up, face my body in that direction, and take one step at a time.

Just By Looking at the Sky

Yesterday morning, I turned and saw my girls sitting at the table, bathed in sunshine.

I was caught there.  I felt love and peace and the simplicity of the moment.

Morning light is one of my favorite things.

That sunshine is warm and constantly moving, lighting our days, marching us on through this existence.

It is synonymous with hope, and reminds me of perspective, clearer vision, chasing the dark of night away.

Just recently finished this book and have thought a lot about something I learned there.

Elder Maxwell talks about discoveries aiding faith, but then says something about how discoveries, supportive as they may be, will never remove the need for faith.  

God is good and always there.

God wants our happiness and growth.

He knows what we need.

He knows the answers.

He knows the end from the beginning, even when we don't.

And I feel like, for me, there is this juxtaposition between seeing so many blessings and God's hand in my life, while also still being in the darkness of night on other things -- things I'm still waiting to see how it will work out or what it will look like in the light of morning.

I'm comforted by the reality that morning always comes round again.

I believe this, and maybe don't stop often enough to see the messages written for me to read every day, just by looking at the sky.

Faith will always yield beautiful fruit.

Darkness will always give way to light.

Walking the Track

Last weekend I had a talk with a dear friend of mine.

We talked about life -- how things come along and wrench you off what you thought you were doing and wherever it was you thought you were going.

Interruption moments that can be quick pauses, or full-fledged buckle-up-for-this type deals.

For me, when these things happen, I feel as tho I'm in a tunnel and can't yet see the light up ahead.  I make plans in my mind of exactly what that light is going to look like when I get there.

It's going to pan out this way, and by this time.

("I'm going to have a bunch of cute ducks, all lined up in a row, and it's gonna be sweet.")

And then, often, as I keep walking on that track, it isn't happening how I thought it needed to. (And, as an aside, my timeline is utterly thrown out the window.)

(It ain't a happenin', and you begin to wonder if it ever will.)

That's when the frustration sets in.

It can be tempting and easy to feel like God isn't listening to you when that angst sets in.

Recently I had a reset moment when I listened to this talk.  I could see myself here and realized that in those moments of frustration, I am the one preventing impressions from a loving Father---not that He isn't giving them, but I can't hear them.
And, more importantly, I can make it hard for me to feel love and reassurance from my Heavenly Parents.

"Many of us, in moments of personal anguish, feel that God is far from us.  The pavilion that seems to intercept divine aid does not cover God but occasionally covers us.  God is never hidden, yet sometimes we are...Our own desires, rather than a feeling of 'Thy will be done,' create the feeling of a pavilion blocking God.  God is not unable to see us or communicate with us, but we may be unwilling to listen or submit to His will and His time. ...we can't insist on our timetable when the Lord has His own. ...We remove the pavilion when we feel and pray 'Thy will be done' and 'in Thine own time.'  His time should be soon enough for us since we know that He wants only what is best."

(from Pres. Eyring's talk "Where is The Pavilion" -- for the full talk, go here)

Here's the thing.

In those moments, I have to go back to my heart.

To what I know.

To what I've felt confirmed there.

I believe that God is ultimately interested in our hearts -- just like we are, and I believe that's where He helps us the most.

He is testing our hearts.

Trying our hearts.

Teaching our hearts.

Shaping our hearts.

Because I believe that, that's really all that matters.

In the seasons where the next bend is hidden from view and I'm in the dark, God isn't.

That's what I know.

And hanging my hat on that brings the only peace that can ultimately be found sometimes.

It may be the only place I know to run away to and feel safe for a while.

But oh! what a lovely place to hide.

Waiting on the Lord

I know.

I've said this before.

But.

I really love Sundays.

Sometimes, I feel like if I can just hang on with my hands or even my nails and teeth and barely skate into Sunday, my cup will be filled again.

I'm telling you -- I think it's my favorite day of the week.

 Last night I sat by the fire for a long time, writing and reflecting.

I listened to carols and felt totally hugged by them.

Elder Scott talks about how individual scriptures "...can become stalwart friends that are not limited by geography or calendar.  They are always available when needed. ...To memorize a scripture is to forge a new friendship.  It is like discovering a new individual who can help in time of need, give inspiration and comfort, and be a source of motivation for needed change."  (for more, see this talk)

I thought of that last night as I was cleaning up dinner in the quiet, and then as I sat there, writing.

Some of those carols are so familiar in my heart that they are old friends.  And the text of their message has lifted my heart and brought joy and peace to my soul on so many occasions that I couldn't count them.

The last several months have, possibly, been the hardest of my life thus far---while also, ironically, feeling undeservedly blessed in many, many, ways,

I have felt exhausted.

Discouraged.

Overwhelmed.

Sorrow.

Loss.

Evaluation of mistakes and regrets.

Painful introspection.

Cleansing.

Faith.

Struggle.

Finding hope.

Clinging to it.

Dependence on the Lord.

A lot of quiet.

Over the last week, I have found myself pondering this message:

"In the scriptures, the word wait means to hope, to anticipate, and to trust....To wait upon the Lord means planting the seed of faith and nourishing it...it means praying as the Savior did---to God, our Heavenly Father---saying...'Thy will be done'...Waiting upon the Lord means pondering in our hearts and 'receiving the Holy Ghost' so that we can know 'all things what [we] should do...[it] means to 'stand fast' and 'press forward' in faith, 'having a perfect brightness of hope.' It means 'relying alone upon the merits of Christ' and 'with [His] grace assisting [us, saying]: Thy will be done, O Lord, and not ours.'...In my life I have learned that sometimes I do not receive an answer to a prayer because the Lord knows I am not ready.  When he does answer, it is often 'here a little and there a little' because that is all that I can bear or all I am willing to do. ...We may not know when or how the Lord's answers will be given, but in His time and His way, I testify, His answers will come. ...Every one of us is more beloved to the Lord than we can possibly understand or imagine.  Let us therefore be kinder to one another and kinder toward ourselves. ...I express gratitude that 'in my Gethsemane' and yours, we are not alone.  He that watches over us 'shall neither slumber nor sleep.' His angels here and beyond the veil are 'round about [us], to bear [us] up.'"

---Elder Robert D. Hales, from his talk titled "Waiting Upon the Lord: Thy Will Be Done"

(For the full talk, go here.  It's a good one.)

I know that all of us have seasons like this in life.

In all of my processing, I have come around to these beautiful truths, again and again.

Ultimately, they are the place that I find rest.

God is kind and gentle.

The Savior's atonement is real and personal.

The things I have learned over the past year are deeply meaningful to me.

God is letting me learn, from my own experience.

Seriously...what a gift.

It's something I can't fully express adequate gratitude for.

Something I can't put a price tag on. 

Something I am consistently humbled by.

Indeed, He that keepeth Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps. (Psalm 121:4)

Living With Hope

A year ago, I said goodbye to my Dad.

I said goodbye to being able to physically interact with him.

I said goodbye to conversations and laughs, 

traditions, working together, late night phone calls just because.

When I look at these photos, I remember climbing into bed beside him.

And I remember always being able to go to him as a little girl when I was afraid in the night.  He would let me snuggle up next to him for as long as I needed.

Or take me downstairs to get a snack of bread and butter with honey 

in the middle of the night.

He was there, always.  

Tender, quiet, gentle, concerned.  

He gave the gifts of strength and confidence and love.  

Always love.

These are really the last photos I have where I can see my father there -- a trace of his smile, his knowing, quiet eyes, the concern and love that he always had for others.  

Time was short.

He died just four days later, on a Friday afternoon.

Looking at these today, I am reminded of something 

Elder Wirthlin said in General Conference 8 years ago.

He referenced Good Friday, that Friday of Fridays, long ago, 

when the Savior was crucified.

He says "it was a Friday filled with devastating, consuming sorrow that gnawed at the souls of those who loved and honored the Son of God." 

And then he continues with this:

"But the doom of that day did not endure.

The despair did not linger because on Sunday, 

the resurrected Lord burst the bonds of death. ...

And in an instant the eyes that had been filled with ever-flowing tears dried.  

The lips that had whispered prayers of distress and grief 

now filled the air with wondrous praise."

Then, after pointing us to thinking about the resurrection, 

he makes greater application for every aspect of life, 

not just when we are facing death.  

"Each of us will have our own Fridays---those days when the universe itself seems shattered and the shards of our world lie littered about us in pieces.  We all will experience those broken times when it seems we can never be put together again.  

We will all have our Fridays.

But I testify to you in the name of the One who conquered death---Sunday will come.  

In the darkness of our sorrow, Sunday will come.

No matter our desperation, no matter our grief, Sunday will come. 

...I testify to you that the Resurrection is not a fable."

I love this so much.

Whether you have kissed someone goodbye, watching life slip from their body, 

or just have encountered, 

as we all do, 

crushing disappointment and sorrow and hardship, 

there is hope.

And we all have times where we have to believe that.

My life, over the past year, has been full of many difficult surprises and turns.  

There have been so many emotions.

I have had to say goodbye more than once,

and in more than one way or circumstance.

I have felt broken.

I have felt beside myself, not knowing what to do.

I have felt angry and hurt.

I have struggled to feel at peace with myself, 

to forgive myself, to move forward.

My heart has ached with sadness.

But.

Even in those Fridays, I have noticed Sunday all throughout.

That is what I am thinking about today.

God doesn't leave us alone.

He sends angels -- in the form of people, and blessings, and comfort, and peace.

He gives you so many reasons to laugh.

In quiet moments, He reassures and steadies.

He blesses you in ways that you feel you don't deserve.

He cleanses and calms your heart by letting you know that Sunday is real.

His great gift is that we can trust Him; we can have hope.

And what I love about it is that hope propels us forward. 

It doesn't allow me to sit still and stagnant, 

stranded, without a way home.

No.

Hope whispers that all will be well,

that we are in God's tender care,

that we are experiencing exactly those things that we need to.

And, the secret I have found?

That in the moments that you feel you are broken, those cracks become filled with joy and peace and knowledge that doesn't come any other way.

It is there that God offers you "beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness." (Isaiah 61:3)

God lives.

I know this.

His matchless gifts of peace and love fill me with joy.

Investing Now

Yesterday afternoon the children and I took a drive up the canyon by our home.

It was as if the mountains were on fire with color. 

It took my breath away, and the boys kept complaining as I continued to stop and snap pictures.  

Every place I looked, each bend in the road, gave my eyes beautiful surprises.  

I wished, more than once, that it was evening and I was out walking in the quiet, taking in the colors when the sun wasn't so bright.

Then, last night, after dinner, they came into my room to listen to our chapter book read-aloud.  

I nursed Claire, Mia lay on the bed beside me, and the boys were on the floor.  We read the final three chapters of Caddie Woodlawn, a book I loved as a child, but had not read since.

(the most successful selfie we got of all of us, which isn't great)

When I read the last sentence, I was disappointed it was over.  It was beautiful and wholesome, laced with virtue and lessons about being people, living honorably, growing up, family, hard work, and living with simplicity.  

I remembered why I loved it, and we promptly got on Amazon and ordered the book that follows it, which I haven't read.

But.

(I really am only posting this one because I love it of Mia)

As I read this paragraph to them, I was reminded of our afternoon, of the beauty of autumn.  

"It seemed to Caddie Woodlawn that she had never known a more beautiful autumn than the one which followed.  Goldenrod and asters bloomed yellow and purple and lavender along the side of every road, and swept in bright waves across the fields to the woods.  In the woods the oaks put on their gayest colors.  Every shade of red they flung against the clear blue sky, from a soft pinkish lavender to deepest crimson, and the silver birches trembled and shivered in their thinning gold."

(watching them ahead of me on the road today)

Don't you want to curl up in a blanket and just read that again?

Now, as I'm sitting here writing about it, it has led me to thinking about this.

I know, like the colors, like the days rapidly becoming shorter, like the warm afternoons shifting to cooler temps, that things of eternal consequence are happening -- right now.  That, despite how it sometimes feels, everything is constantly in flux and time is slipping away and that moments and decisions and conversations and relationships matter.

Family matters.

My children matter.

What I do matters.

How I spend my time matters.

And the only way I can grasp some of that beauty to last, and really last,
is to invest now.

There's that saying that we plant June roses so we can enjoy them in the Decembers of our lives -- so I guess that's what I'm thinking about.

Sometimes I really just want to (and do) get angry and raise my voice and feel frustrated with my kids.  I struggle to see the longevity of a personal plan for me, for what lies ahead, for the hurdles that have to be negotiated and figured out.

I thought about this while reading from Caddie earlier in the book, when her father talks to her about becoming a woman.  He talks about women teaching "...gentleness and courtesy and love and kindness...a...task...harder than cutting trees or building mills or damming rivers.  It takes nerve and courage and patience, but good women have those things. ...A woman's work is something fine and noble to grow up to. ...I want you to be a woman with a wise and understanding heart, healthy in body and honest in mind."

I figure the best way I can do that is to pray and plead and be aware that if I invest now, it won't all slip away.  And sometimes I feel like a hypocrite because, despite that being the desire of my heart, I frequently fall so far short of what I would like to be.  I worry about what my actions and words are proclaiming, even as I try to aim high.  

But I guess there's this.

As a mother, I am always planting.  

And as an individual, I am always planting.  

I can choose to do a half-hearted job, or throw everything into it.  

It isn't always pretty, and a lot of the time I am not happy with my performance.  

But.

 It does have my heart.  

And my heart and their hearts are worth investing in.  

When I look back on my life as a woman, and as a mother (as two separate parts of my life, which inevitably become intertwined), and also on their lives, I don't want it to be awash in colors that I can't remember, that are indistinguishable from throwing it out with the bathwater.  

These thoughts push me onward, inspire me to keep trying.

I want to remember moments like tonight, where the crazy simmers down and I find something meaningful in it -- where the greater purpose comes clearly into view.

I want to remember the little feet among the colors -- the voices, the laughter, the tears, the frustrations, the successes and failures, and the conversations that made our life together -- that made up my life.

God has filled my life, and yours, with individuals and circumstances that I believe are personally tailored.  This gives me faith and hope and trust in God that we have what we need.  He has made the tools available to seek and gain a wise and understanding heart, and to find health in body and spirit and soul.  
This fills me with joy, confidence, and peace.

(This talk is a favorite.)

Notes on Personal Cubism

Yesterday, the children and I talked about Picasso and cubism.  I loved the brightly colored lids from their baby-food-bottle-turned-paint-receptacle containers. 

We discussed how that technique is kind of like a puzzle with all the pieces mixed up.  

We listened to happy classical music tunes of organ and peppy trumpet in the background.  

I loved watching them dip into their new paints, feel the way the brushes met the paper, the blending of colors -- a curiosity of integration.  

(the beginnings of their paintings -- to be cut up and put back together, jumbled, to imitate Mr. Picasso)

It made me want to sit down with my own blank canvas and see what story came out of me.

Do you ever have the joy of something so simple, like a collage of brightly colored mini paint pots?  (It reminds me of the line in one of my favorite movies, "You've Got Mail," where Meg Ryan's character mentions how much she loves fall and would send her friend a bouquet of freshly sharpened pencils...you get the idea.)

My life feels a bit of a jumble these days.  

My father, someone I absolutely adore and respect and love and share so much with, has been diagnosed with stage 4 melanoma.  

It is the kind of news that makes your heart stop.  

And then it keeps beating and you are trying to figure out why because how could it be beating when it wants to break? 

When it feels so heavy?  

When everything feels so surreal, and then so frighteningly real, and then back to reeling in disbelief that you are actually in a particular situation that you have dreaded all your life. 

You know when you look at Picasso's cubism paintings and you are trying to figure out what went where or how to discern it or what it means (at least, that is what I do when I look at those)?  

I feel like I am there, but in real life.  I am standing, trying to discern what it all means, where it is going, what it was meant to be, what the whole message actually is.  

I feel like I'm standing in pieces - pieces of feelings and emotion, pieces of memory and anticipation of potential future nostalgia, pieces of the unknown -- not knowing if it will be put together again how I'd like or if I have to make a new beautiful picture with what is leftover.

I know this.

Pain is part of beauty is part of growth is part of joy is part of pain.

Finding Joy

I woke up this morning and could hear the children playing downstairs.  

I could tell from the light against the white curtains that it was beautiful out.

Blue sky, sunshine, light waiting, anxiously, to spill into my room, onto my bed, across the carpet, cheerful to warm my heart and skin. 

For some reason as I lay there, I thought about the last comment I made in my post yesterday -- about parenting being a gift beyond gifts.

(Because they make me happy.)

But it's so good because it's so hard.

I sat there and thought about one of my favorite musings from 2 Nephi chapter 2.  

We frequently quote verse 25 where it says:

"Adam fell that men might be; and men are, that they might have joy."

(Doesn't he look like joy?)

I often hear people site this verse and follow it up by talking about how God wants us to be happy.

I believe that.  And I believe the way He has set before us is merciful, life-giving, soul-filling.

But every time I read that verse, and especially in the context of the chapter in which it is given, I always feel like the underlying message I'm being taught is more than that.

That my Heavenly Father wants me to experience joy.  True joy.

To me joy is so much deeper than just being happy.  Or having fun.  Or getting what I want in the moment or in a certain situation.
Joy, to me, implies depth and knowledge and understanding and comprehension.

Something that is a footing for all my purpose.

It's the why behind it all.

And to know that, to understand that, I have to learn from my own experience.

I have to be allowed to feel broken at times, to feel hurt, despair, discouragement and any other number of emotions we may not initially link with joy, and certainly not with being "happy."

But they are inseparably connected, two sides of the same coin.

I believe that God gives us these character and soul defining experiences.  Things that shape us.  Things that shape our relationships, particularly family relationships and marriages -- and moving further outward.

This is where we figure it out.  As Elder Maxwell once said, "We are each other's clinical material."

When God says He wants us to have joy, I think He's also letting us know, up front, that there will be great measures of sorrow, too.
Not-so-comfortable-or-so-welcome-stretching.

We each have to walk our own path.  

We each have to come to know for ourselves.  That brings me joy.

He doesn't just want me to be happy.  

He wants me to understand it, to know what it is, to have tried it on for size.

One of my all-time favorite quotes?  

Comes from Elder Holland, also one of my favorites.

"On some of your more difficult or disappointing days you will ask, 'Why is it so hard . . . ?'  Answer: Because salvation is not a cheap experience. It is achieved out of the anguish of the human heart, reflecting at least in some small part Christ's suffering and sacrifice in our behalf. No one who understands the Savior's agony can think sin and error are overcome easily. But when we are making our best effort, that's when the angels come. Our success is as certain as it is difficult."

I'm grateful for the teaching, the learning and stretching, and especially for those angels.

I believe heaven is right close by -- tending, encouraging, aiding us gently in our learning, picking you and me up along the way, deepening our wells to hold the joy that's being carved out in abundance.  One day the awakening will make all these things sure.

I believe that.

Messages of Peace

In the early afternoon, my house is bathed in light.  It is a singular time of day for me as the brightness floods in, bringing out the honey grain in the wood, the rich colors.  The brilliance of it seems to draw my attention, calling me at the same time to bask in it and reflect, commanding an immediate sense of quiet from somewhere inside.

Years ago, as a little girl, my family traveled to the cabin for a week in the summer.  The cabin wasn't plumbed and when we had to go to the bathroom in the night, we depended on having each other and a flashlight.  You could get to the outhouse just fine without the light, but who would want to face the dark woods alone?  We were young, the woods were deep and dark and quiet, and it felt good to hold something that could pierce that and give you a direct, clear line of view.

I've thought about that as a metaphor for the Holy Ghost.  We are, as it were, away from home for a time, in a world that while stunning and beautiful and full of remarkable blessings, is becoming increasingly darkened by unbelief, skepticism, injustice, and disregard for moral standards and behavior.  In a discussion on Sunday this talk was referenced, comparing light to revelation.  Sometimes it comes so pressingly, as though, in one step, you've walked from a dark room into a light one.  Other times, the light seems to distill gradually, like a morning sunrise.  Both are ways that the Holy Ghost communicates with us. 

One of the roles of the Holy Ghost is to bring peace, REAL peace, the kind that money cannot buy, the kind that success and prestige of any kind cannot replicate.

I was asked on Sunday if I would share an experience where I had felt the influence of the Holy Ghost, and after doing so, I challenged myself and the women I was with to start looking more earnestly and try to recognize the Holy Ghost in the day-to-day-ness of life.

  Last night I burrowed into my bed late, spooning up to Mr. C. to warm my body and my forever-and-always cold feet (thank you, I love this).  I found myself thinking about the messages of peace I've recognized and felt lately, even just over the weekend.

I remembered Saturday morning, lazy, lazy, waking up late.  Scott and the children were gone on their Saturday morning outing.  I ate a bowl of cereal in the quiet and started into a book.  Moving the couch into direct sunlight, I wrapped a cozy blanket around me and sat in that warmth, reading, for almost three hours.  Quiet, peaceful, time to think and process and engage.

Later that evening, Mr. C. and I knelt in prayer to begin fasting together, discussing beforehand the things we were pondering in our hearts and minds, things we desperately feel we need direction on.  As he was voice for our prayer, I felt the power of uniting in faith, trusting that this road is possible because we're on it together, and because God hears and answers prayers.

Sunday morning was beautiful and crisp out.  Blue sky, morning rays of sun kissing lawn and curtains and carpet.  Light like that is contagious.  

All the children came into our bed, and we began our new book, reading the first chapter of Summer of the Monkeys.  Peace, my friends.  It was there.

In church I sat listening to a young man in our ward talking about faith amid the questions of science and those questioning belief in something greater.  He finished and I was up on my feet, so touched and motivated by his remarks.  I kept thinking I was going to be able to hold it together but his words touched me so deeply, my emotions literally spilled out, too.  I was so proud of him for saying that choosing faith can be hard.  I wanted him to know that we continue to have to choose that.  Life, as I've contemplated so much in the past several months, is about choosing faith.  I feel as though I've had to surrender, in so many aspects of my life, to choosing faith and forging ahead in trust.  We are here to see if through all the battles, we will continue to choose what we chose before we came: the freedom to believe and exercise faith in Jesus Christ.  That is the answer, and it is a lesson I continue to learn again and again. 

Before going to bed on Sunday night I wrote love notes and tucked them into boxes, feeling love within my heart as I wrote to each of my children and my husband.  It was so real and so calming and filled me with gratitude.

And last evening, the kids and I listened to Scott's lesson for us in our family home evening.  He told the story of Enos, and had taken the time to draw pictures for the children.  Every once in a great while it seems like there is a lot of extra quiet in family home evening, and we're dialed in more than other nights.  That was last night.  He had told the kids that he wanted them to think about things they could learn from this story before he began.  

  (Enos goes into the forest to hunt.)

 (Scott realized, too late, that he should have drawn a bow and arrow instead of a rifle.  Love it.  He goes to hunt wild beasts, and while there, remembers the words his father often spoke about Jesus Christ.)

(Because of his reflections, he prays seeking a renewal of the Lord's spirit in his life and to receive forgiveness.  That forgiveness comes and he wonders how that can possibly have happened, and is answered that it was because of his faith.)

I found myself pondering implications of that story for me.  In the end, the Spirit whispered to me that choosing to exercise faith in Jesus Christ is also choosing to change, to repent, to want continual progress, not stagnant hope without any working on our part.  If you truly pick up one end of that stick, you automatically pick up the other end, too.  As Elder D. Todd Christofferson said, 

"Repentance means striving to change.  It would mock the Savior's suffering in the Garden of Gethsemane and on the cross for us to expect that He should transform us into angelic beings with no real effort on our part.  Rather, we seek His grace to complement and reward our most diligent efforts.  Perhaps as much as praying for mercy, we should pray for time and opportunity to work and strive and overcome.  Surely the Lord smiles upon one who desires to come to judgment worthily, who resolutely labors day by day to replace weakness with strength.  Real repentance, real change may require repeated attempts, but there is something refining and holy in such striving." 

(for full talk, go here)

 Sometimes it seems as though the version of myself that I hope to be and what I actually am are disparagingly far apart.  But I am grateful for a God who, through the Holy Ghost, helps me recognize His beauty and power working, even for one as simple as me.  I am grateful for the challenge and for the journey and for opportunities, great and small, to reflect and try to tune in.  The Holy Ghost fills me with hope and joy, urges me forward, and calms, at times, my troubled heart.  He helps me to see the holiness in striving, confirming the next step, that small flashlight beam penetrating the darkness and fear of the unknown, bringing clarity, insight, and peace in His wake.

(Go here for a video that touched me this weekend.)