Escuchando el Consejo de mi Esposo

“Vuestra alma será bendecida al aprender a escuchar, y luego al escuchar para aprender de los cónyuges …todo lo cual aumentará vuestra capacidad para escuchar el consejo de Dios” Elder Russell M. Nelson, Abril 1991. “Escuchad para Aprender”

Con esta frase en mente, decidi compartir mi ensayo personal con uno de los hombres que posee mi entera confianza, a quien admiro profundamente no solo por sus logros sino por el afanoso deseo que el pone para ayudarme a ser major persona.

Después de haber compartido mi ensayo original con mi esposo, me percate que hay ciertas modificaciones que hacer. Uno de los primeros consejos que el me dio fue agregar detalles que ayudarian a dirigir al lector hacia una descripción mas especifica que yo, siendo el orador, doy por hecho algo que mi audiencia desconoce.

Con esto me die cuenta que doy pocos detalles, especificamente en como fue que los misioneros dieron respuesta a mis preguntas cuando decidi unirme a la iglesia. Incluso describir un poco mas acerca del proceso que los Santos de los Ultimos Dias seguimos cuando nos bautizamos seria muy conveniente para aquellos que desconocen del tema.

Asimismo, mi esposo sugirió que pudiera hacer que mi voz se escuche, para enfatizar que es un ensayo personal. En otras palabras poder agregar un dialogo en que mi voz se haga presente en la historia y que el lector pueda llegar a conocer mas el propósito de la lectura.

Finalmente, obtener retroalimentación de una tercer persona ajena a la clase me ayudo a tener un panorama mas amplio y en obtener ideas de como mejorar mi escritura. De la misma manera, el poder escuchar el consejo de mi esposo siempre me ayudado a poder tener un mayor conocimiento, pero mayor aun, a escuchar par aprender.

More Than Enough

Accounts across history document sacred experiences between man and the Divine; moments when the soul connects with deity and clarity is achieved. These communications vary in their form; some involve visitations from angels, while others bear record of physically seeing the Lord Himself. Many accounts document sacred dreams where the recipient receives a message he or she believes to have come from a divine source.

Lehi, a man living in Jerusalem during King Zedekiah’s reign, received such a dream from God. He was instructed to assemble his family and to leave their material possessions behind to undertake a journey to the Promised Land. Two of Lehi’s children doubted their father and his dream, calling him a foolish and visionary man. God warned Lehi that he and his family would be destroyed if they remained on their current path in Jerusalem, so they pressed forward in faith into the unknown.

This dream was life changing for Lehi and all of his posterity. It prompted a move across the planet and set their lives on completely different paths. The dream brought about difficult circumstances; turning brother against brother, subjecting the family to hunger and strife throughout their journey, and ultimately causing wars in the family’s new homeland. But it also brought immeasurable good because it spread knowledge of Christ and His gospel to countless people, both in the past and today.

These life-changing dreams still happen. God continues to speak to His children, and sometimes that happens through dreams of warning like Lehi experienced. After a year and a half in a very unhealthy relationship, God sent me a dream like that.

It came on an August afternoon after I’d gotten home from work. I don’t take naps, but I felt a strong pull to lie down on the couch. Sleep took me immediately.

I realized I was throwing a party in my apartment. My mom was there, which was strange because she lives in Illinois. I started to walk over to her, but there was a knock at the door and then the man I was seeing walked in.

Suddenly the party was at an outdoor pool where he and I liked to go at night. We were in the hot tub and I was grazing my fingers across his collarbone like I always did. It seemed intimate to touch him here, on this bone that felt vulnerable because it was so close to his heart. I was running the pad of my fingertip along the top ridge when I noticed something was coming out of it.

Saliva pooled in my mouth and my cheeks rippled with revulsion as I watched my tender place distort. Hundreds of tiny bones began to rip through his skin, slowly unfurling like a hand. They were thin and grew four inches long, taking form as the clicking, jointed legs of a tarantula. They were waving at me.

I tasted metallic and pulled away in the water, repulsed by the squirming bones that continued to pulse back and forth underneath his chin. I pinched my eyelids to escape the grotesque scene, but I couldn’t wake up.

“Mandy, we need to talk,” he said.

I couldn’t stop staring at the bones.

“I’ll go grab my stuff,” he said as he climbed out of the water.

My mother came to me then. Her green eyes were so aware; they had the same vivid intensity my deceased grandpa or grandma’s eyes had when I’d seen them in previous dreams. This distinction made me realize that while my body was asleep, my soul was very much awake and there was a message for me.

“Why don’t you see him for what he is?” she asked. “All of us,” she said pointing to the rest of the people at the party, “see him. But you don’t.”

Then he was back. He went to shake my mother’s hand but he couldn’t; their hands wouldn’t connect. An invisible obstacle blocked the contact, so he walked away from her and motioned for me to follow.

“Don’t go with him,” she said.

But I did.

We were walking to his car when I realized there was another woman with us. She was on his other side, an ethereal blonde like Galadriel in Lord of the Rings. 

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s with me,” he said as he kept walking.

I stopped. “I thought you wanted to talk?”

“I do, aren’t you coming?” he asked, turning around.

The woman looked back at me. She seemed to sense my confusion, then she said:

“I’ll always be with him.”

The dream slowed down. Her words confirmed a truth I had suspected but ignored for over a year. I knew there were other girls. But I had always believed he would choose me in the end. 

I was wrong.

I ran from them until I reached the parking lot. I saw my mom and her car so I jumped in the driver’s side and locked the doors.

Then I screamed. A raw, carnal upheaval exploded out of my mouth and reverberated around the car with spectacular force. I couldn’t stop it, and I felt my jaw crack from the strain of the sound.

When it finally ended, my mom turned to me with her knowing green eyes and she smiled.

I woke shaking on the couch in the night.

I had never feared God or His power until that moment. There was no doubt in my mind that this dream was from Him, and His message to get out of my relationship was clear. But I didn’t want to acknowledge it. This was partly because I loved that man, despite the emotional pain I was in throughout our relationship. But more than that I was frightened to join the league of people who receive dreams from God because that meant I was on a really bad path if He felt the need to intervene. 

It took me two weeks to accept the dream and act, and that meant not only ending my relationship but also my commitments that involved him. I’d revolved my life around him for so long that I didn’t recognize myself or my daily routine once he was gone. Not only had our relationship died, but it also felt like part of me had too.

I ached for him and felt my heart rip each time he’d post a picture with a new girl. I ended the relationship but I still cared and it killed me to realize he didn’t. His absence from my life tore me apart once he was gone and the scars are still pink.  

But I never doubt the dream or the actions it inspired. I still hurt. Mr. Right hasn't suddenly appeared. Yet my life is changing and I am starting to be okay. 

Lehi's dream saved his family and millions of souls that came after him. My dream probably won't have such an incredible effect, but it saved me. And that is more than enough. 

Elephant in the Front Yard (revised)

Oh, it smelled good. Tyler opened the grill hatch, the smoke wisping around his heavily-tattooed arm. Pork, beef, chicken, shrimp--a regular petting zoo getting cooked right in front of me. As a missionary I had gained a strong appetite, something I had lacked for much of my adolescence. Just 2 months earlier in fact, aided by a prescribed regular dosage of corticosteroids, I could down more food than my formerly 300-pound missionary companion. Considering my 150 pound frame, this was an accomplishment. 

Watching that searing cooked meat that day? I knew I wouldn't have any. I wasn't hungry. I hadn't been hungry. I began to wonder if I'd ever be hungry again.

Our mission president arrives with his wife, both dressed in black. They hug, shake hands, comment on the cooking food. They smile and show genuine enthusiasm for being able to see me and my two companions, Elder Clark and Elder Blair, and to finally meet the family (the Moores) that had kept us sane the last five days. Our mission president's wife, perhaps a little less likely to stay composed in situations like this than her husband, shows signs of losing said composure at the sight of Elder Clark. I look away, afraid to fall down that hole with her. 

Conversation remains light. Jokes are made, laughs are had, everyone doing their best to avoid the house-sized elephant in the room (or the front yard, in this case). And why wouldn't they avoid it? Elder Clark needed every opportunity to get things off his mind, and this BBQ was the perfect chance to do that. It's funny, then, that he was the first to address it.

"How was it?" he asked.

"It was really great." my mission president said, volunteering to take on the difficult task of describing the funeral. "The gym held 600 people and it was packed full. Just a wonderful celebration of his life."

You don't hear many funerals described as "great" but I was beyond relieved to hear that this one was. 

"Good, good." Elder Clark said. "Who's ready to eat?"

I'm reminded again of my lack of appetite. Was I taking things too hard? Elder Clark was grabbing a plate, piling it with meats. Why couldn't I stomach the thought of doing the same?

Our mission president takes Elder Clark into the house for an interview, plate full of food. I could only imagine what they would talk about. Things had improved since last Tuesday, but only as time tried to push the event further and further from our memories. But the uncertainty surrounding us was far too great for us to move on, and the memory of the event was mercilessly vivid in Elder Clark's mind. I could hear him at night. I could hear him waking up, gasping for air. I sit still, paralyzed by my perceived inability to comfort him.

"Elder Parker, wanna go for a walk?" my mission president said, emerging from the house with Elder Clark. Neither one had touched their food, it appeared. Elder Clark seemed well, content, maybe even happy. 

My mission president and I walk around the farm, along the recently harvested wheat. He asks me how I'm doing, how the counseling's been going. I tell him I've been better but I'm happy Elder Clark's been doing so well. He agrees. 

"How do I help him?" I ask. "I'm never sure what to say or whether or not we should even talk about it. I just don't feel helpful at all."

"I don't think he would agree with that."

A feeling of relief washes over me. I don't realize it right away, but this is exactly what I need to hear.

All this time I figured things were just out of my control and I couldn't do anything right and all the choices I had made up to that point were in vain. In some ways I felt like Nephi, as his family sailed the ship he had asked them to make across the ocean to the promised land. As things looked dire and hope seemed lost, he had reason to think the whole weight of the situation rested on his shoulders. But it wasn't, and he knew that. Even as his brothers had him bound and restrained and eventually released, he praised his God and didn't wallow in his misfortune.

Perhaps I should simply release myself from the bondage I was creating.

We walked back to the BBQ.  Elder Blair, oblivious as ever, was explaining to Tyler the proper way to grill a chicken breast. The mission president's wife talks with the mother of the Moore family about the two kids they have back home. Elder Clark was joking with the father of the Moore family about something crazy he did in high school. 

I take a bite out of a tender piece of grilled chicken. My body welcomes it.

No more elephants in the front yard. 

Musical Transcendence

Nearly every student had come to the High School that day dressed in their Sunday best. What appeared to be a religious gathering held a much different meaning on this day; the air was heavy and somber. The clock ticked softly in the corner of the room as I waited for the bell. We sat in those faded orange chairs that echoed the great school spirit associated with the tradition of school colors. In the background the professor continued the lecture but all eyes pointed downward. Lost in thought, we all contemplated what had transpired the day before. A girl’s whimper and the sound of tears broke from the row of desks to my right. She had known her. They had been best friends before it had happened— before the accidental shooting.

The bell rang and we all stood up and grabbed our things. Walking down the hallway, all was silent. It was an eerie silence that I had never before experienced. I went down and grabbed my French Horn as the rest of the band quickly rushed to the main lobby of the school where we would be performing in tribute of the life the girl who had been shot.

Photo from: i.telegraph.co.uk

We felt like an army marching to help our fallen friend. We had a duty that no one was taking lightly. Our instruments were swords; our music, shields. I wonder if the 2,000 young warriors in the Book of Mormon had felt the same sense of comradery and duty as they marched to help their brothers in war.

Or perhaps the people of Nephi who were committed to defending their friends who had promised to never fight again.

We sat together and prepared ourselves. The song was Danny Boy. It had a beautiful lyrical line and a french horn solo that expressed the feelings of the day perfectly.

We sat there in the uncomfy chairs of the hall surrounded by many students all dressed in their suits and dresses, all wanting to honor the girl who had died. Some knew her, many did not, but all wanted to respect her and the manifestation of this was huge. There is something about tragedy that brings out community. It is a beautiful thing. It is sad that an ugly thing must bring out beauty in life

Every High School student was affected. The girl had been shot in the head by a gun the kids thought was not loaded. Those who knew her were heartbroken. Even those who didn't know her were affected. The whole school was somber. The Symphonic Band was asked to play as tribute. Many students had come dressed in their Sunday best. I played the French Horn in the band. Each musician played their heart out. We played for her. Students surrounded the band in the large entryway. The air seemed think and tears streamed down faces. The power of music said what everyone was already feeling. And yet, it healed.

For those of us in the band, the opportunity to perform was an incredible experience. It was transcendent and lead to a clairvoyance that allowed us to see into the life beyond the here and now. We played our hearts out for that girl. We didn't even know her, at least not personally. But there we sat in our Sunday best and we gave it our all. We played for her. We all played for her. Everyone in the school did it for her. Life is so short and I think that is why it scared us. But it is those moments when we are scared that we cling to something stronger and those things we cling to, if but for a moment, will bridge that gap between heaven and earth. That is what music did for us on that day. It was the bridge that brought us all together and brought us strength. It is one memory that I will never forget.

Later that day I was walking home. To get home I have to climb a very steep hill. There are very few trees on that hill; only dirt and some scrap from cars that fling them to the sides of the road as they speed along. You have to walk on the curb in order to avoid the dangerous vehicles that careen through the loopy road leading up to my house. I realized that this road is representative of life. Understand that if men are that we are to have joy, then the purpose of our very existence is to come to find strength and happiness. So why is there struggle? Well what I realized is there is happiness at every step of the journey. Sometimes it’s harder to find. Sometimes there are no trees. But in the end, there is a road that leads back home— and we are on it.

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What Brings Us Together

Nearly every student had come to the High School that day dressed in their Sunday best. What appeared to be a religious gathering held a much different meaning on this day; the air was heavy and somber. The clock ticked softly in the corner of the room as I waited for the bell. We sat in those faded orange chairs that echoed the great school spirit associated with the tradition of school colors. In the background the professor continued the lecture but all eyes pointed downward. Lost in thought, we all contemplated what had transpired the day before. A girl’s whimper and the sound of tears broke from the row of desks to my right. She had known her. They had been best friends before it had happened— before the accidental shooting.

The bell rang and we all stood up and grabbed our things. Walking down the hallway, all was silent. It was an eerie silence that I had never before experienced. The band had been asked to perform in tribute of the girl who had been shot. I went down and grabbed my French Horn and followed the rest of the band to the atrium.

We felt like an army marching to help our fallen friend. We had a duty that no one was taking lightly. Our instruments were swords; our music, shields. I wonder if the 2,000 young warriors in the Book of Mormon had felt the same sense of comradery and duty as they marched to help their brothers in war; or perhaps the people of Nephi who were committed to defending their friends that could not defend themselves. Did they feel that same sense of duty, love, and determination?

As we neared the atrium, unexpected things began to happen. The buzz of students talking in the nearby cafeteria and adjacent halls softened to a murmur; as we took our seats I glanced down at the music stand in front of me. As I contemplated the song we were about to perform, I realized that the dots on that page meant much more to me than just notes. That day they represented our whole hearts. It was to represent the life of our fellow student. Her hopes, her dreams, her accomplishments. We would perform for her.

I looked up and was amazed to see a very large number of students now standing around the band. The great throng of students was respectfully silent now, waiting for us. I looked in front of me and up towards our director. I noticed that even Matt who was normally somewhat of a rambunctious kid had sat up straight in his seat, instrument held at the ready. For any other performance he would have been leaning forward and poking the girls who play clarinet. I guess some people have a strange way of flirting.

But this wasn’t any old concert. The atrium and surrounding hallways were filled with students who had all come to remember our friend. I had seen nothing like it before.

The director made a motion. We lifted our instruments and began to play. The melody was a very lyrical, beautiful line. We played that part with as much expression as we could. The tubas and trombones, they gave core to the song as the melody transitioned from instrument to instrument. You could feel the unique emotion that each sound gave. Many different instruments. Many different sounds. Many different people. But we were united as one voice; everyone felt it. The whole school was united. We stood together in memory of her.

The final notes echoed through the school, leaving the air heavy. The silence was thick. As I let myself come back to my surroundings, I heard sniffling from the crowd. What had they felt as we had performed?

The things that bring us together are the things that give us strength. They are things that are bigger than the one; bigger than the individual. That day, that thing had been music. It united us in spirit, in voice, and it gave us strength amidst tragedy.

It has been said that music is the bridge between Heaven and Earth. Nothing was further than the truth on that one day when we were all brought together, unified by music. 

A Modern-day Moroni

Revision Plan

I have received a lot of helpful feedback that I will be trying to apply on my second draft.  Hailey commented on my post about how she would like me to be clearer in the characterization of my brother (show more plainly why the girls wanted to date him and the guys wanted to be like him).  She also asked me to explain more about why I was in the jungle.  So I plan to give a better explanation of those two things.  Professor Burton also asked me to explain those two aspects of my essay more: to develop more my relationship with my brother, and to be more explicit about why I was in the jungle.  He also asked me to be clearer with my reference to the Book of Mormon and my introduction of Captain Moroni.  Through all of the feedback I have received, I have realized that I need to be less vague for the next draft.  Here goes nothing. 

Green.  It went on endlessly. A seemingly never-ending expanse of trees extended as far as the eye could see in either direction, until it crashed with the graying sky on one side, and a rich and heavenly collage on the other.  Orange had been painted across the horizon, with lines and shadows as if a real paintbrush had left it there.  Rays of gold and red nestled into the paint intermittently.  The angles of light allowed tree-covered mounds to rise up out of the forest floor in sporadic patterns, like green waves frozen in time.  

It was not the first time I had hiked the pyramids in that place.  In fact, the jungle was beginning to feel like home to me.  Growing up with a father who was an archaeologist and a farmer gave me a world of possibilities.  Every spring, I would wake up early each morning to pull on my rubber boots and trudge through the cold Idahoan soil to move the water lines on our potato fields.  I always stopped to look for frogs around the irrigation ditches.  Then summer would come, and my family would have to leave our farm in the care of my uncles in order to move to Guatemala.  I would walk the leafy trails all day to explore the pyramids, and help my dad with the excavations.  But we would be back in Idaho for the crop harvest in the fall.  I treasure the fact that, every summer, the jungle became my home.

 My western-themed bedroom was now just nylon walls surrounded by mosquito net.  Leafy paths became my hallways.  Handmade benches became part of our dining room furniture.  Our oven was made out of clay.  My bathroom was now not so pleasant, but our new endless backyard made it worth the inconvenience. And a miraculous view was available at the top of each staircase. 

I liked being out here.  The solitude and primitive lifestyle made me think.  Not many of the people from home had this.  I guess that adventures were harder to come by in Idaho.  I was privileged to be here.  Then again, back home, they were privileged that they could do their business on something that flushed. The little things I had before, now seemed almost like a dream.  Carpet; the long shaggy kind. Wouldn’t it be awesome to be able to press your cheek up against carpet? Or a mattress! I was so privileged back then.  Why had I taken it for granted?  I didn’t realize that so many people, like the ones here, did not have those small and simple things.

We sat. Black shadows of different sizes occasionally soared across the scene, dancing in the last rays of daylight. I remember sitting on that limestone block, taking in the scenery, and chuckling next to my brother.  His scraggly beard was evidence that he had not seen a mirror in months.  His hiking boots were covered in mud, with twigs and leaves plastered to the bottoms.  He clapped his hands together like a seal when he laughed, before leaning his mountain-man-like head on his wrist, his wide shoulders still shaking with laughter.  He seemed so different physically from the clean-cut man I had grown up with, but he was the same in every other sense: always wanting to compliment others; laughing at everyone’s jokes; and he could still quote the entire Dumb and Dumber movie even though he had not seen a television in ages.  Even though this 6’5” twenty-six year old behemoth was eight years older than myself, I still considered him my best friend.

He was the kind of person that had every reason in the world not to be humble, and yet he was; extremely so.  He was the most spiritual man I had ever met; I often caught him reading his scriptures late into the night.  He was smart.  He was valedictorian in high school, graduated from BYU in Neuroscience, and received a full-ride scholarship to the Duke University School of Medicine where he is preparing to become a brain surgeon.  But what I admired most about him was his ability to influence people’s lives.  He was always caught doing service.  He was even the BYUSA Student Service Association vice president.  And even though he was always so busy, he would find time to call me just to check in and see how I was doing.

If it wasn’t true that all of the girls wanted to date him, it certainly was true that all of the guys wanted to be him.  He had kind eyes; especially when he laughed. After composing ourselves, with a chuckle or two here and there, his breathing became slower, and heavier.  His shoulders fell as he breathed out; his face overcome with peace.  I had read of near-perfect men in my lifetime.  The Book of Mormon was full of them.  I do not remember what we talked about on that pyramid that evening, but that evening, when I sat there with him, I might as well have been sitting there with my other childhood hero, Captain Moroni. 

I was instantly taken there.  The trees were gone; the walls became vibrant with color once again; and the city buzzed with life.  People scurried about below us as they carried out their assigned tasks.  Some wore jade ornaments. Many were laden with tools, or weapons.  A seemingly never-ending expanse of people extended as far as the eye could see. Men could be seen adding the last blocks to the outer wall.

We were able to be enjoying a moment of peace together before the oncoming battle.  Like most ominous occasions, I found comfort in how calm and composed he was.  He was a strong and mighty man; he was a man that did not delight in bloodshed; but he joyed in liberty and freedom for his brethren.  He was thankful for the things he had.  His people enjoyed many privileges and blessings. I knew that he would defend his people, his rights, his country, and his religion, until his last breath.  If all men could like him, surely the devil would be powerless.  I would follow him anywhere; through any battle

Green again. I was back.  A seemingly never-ending expanse of trees extended as far as the eye could see in either direction. A howler monkey roared like a lion in the distance.  With the sun almost gone, the dragonflies chasing mosquitos, and bats chasing dragonflies danced across the sunset.  The humid breeze ruffled through my hair.  And we sat.