Even God is a Character

Mahonri Moriancumer—alias the Brother of Jared—has always been one of my favorite characters to read about in the Book of Mormon. Perhaps it’s because we get to hear so many specific details about him and his journey. Maybe it’s because I feel I can relate to the problems he had with his prayers. The point is that I love learning about him.

In my latest reading of his story, however, I found that we can also learn a lot about someone else: the Lord. 

For instance, take the very first chapter of Ether. The first thing we see the Lord do is confound the language of the people “in his wrath”. That sounded to me like the harsh, angry version of God that seems to dominate the Old Testament. But then we hear about Mahonri Moriancumer (I’ll call him M.M. for short from now on) praying for the safety of his and Jared’s families. At this point, we read three times in only six verses that the Lord “had compassion” on them. Two sides of the same God in one chapter. 

We also get to see the Lord as more present than in many other books of scripture. He literally comes down in a cloud to talk with M.M. and physically leads the way for the Jaredites. 

But perhaps the coolest part of the story happens after the Lord chews M.M. out in Ether 2 for not praying enough. M.M. is sorry and starts praying again, but apparently God isn’t satisfied with this. He wants M.M. to grow. Here, we get to see the Lord in as a teacher with rare detail. First, the Lord compels M.M. to pray and coordinate with Him on building barges for the Jaredites. And He withholds a direct answer to M.M.’s question about lighting the boats so that M.M. has to figure out a solution on his own. Through these actions, the Lord shows that His priority isn’t getting the Jaredites where they’re supposed to be—it’s making the people into who He wants them to be. 

And thus we see that the Book of Mormon characterizes the Lord and His focus on character. 

Book of Mormon Authors Revised

I’ve been studying the Book of Mormon since I learned to read. Despite this, I think I’ve been missing some things from it. Sometimes I forget to think of the individual writers of the Book of Mormon as distinct people. Their messages are so unified—physically and spiritually—and sometimes seem to be separated by only a chapter heading or name of a new book. So I decided to pay close attention this time through to the differences between these men: the words and phrases they use, their moods, and how their individual lives may have influenced those differences. 

I was especially curious about the first major author change in the Book of Mormon: the one between Nephi and Jacob. From a logical standpoint, it the likelihood of their writing styles being particularly different seemed low. They were brothers, after all. And they went through many of the same experiences together.

And yet I’d remembered hearing before that Jacob was the most poetic writer out of all the Book of Mormon prophets. I decided to try to quantify this somewhat—to see if Jacob’s writing was really all that different from Nephi’s. I made a list of some poetic words and phrases that were used only by Jacob in the Book of Mormon:

Magnify our/mine office, head of their corner, labor in sin, delicate, familiar, pure in heart, plead your cause, slumber, contempt, unsearchable, good hope, confessed the Christ. 

And another list of words and phrases unique to Jacob:

Sobbings of their hearts, pointing our souls, firmness in spirit, overanxiety, in very word, poured in his Spirit into my soul, lonesome, mourn out our days, adieu. 

Most of those sound pretty depressing, don’t they? Upon closer inspection, I noticed that a large portion of these phrases are found in the chapters wherein Jacob chastises the men in his society who are involved in immorality and tries to speak comfort to their wives and children. Perhaps Jacob even felt that he’d been left to clean up the Nephites’ act after Nephi’s death. 

In this context, the tender and poignant words made more sense. Jacob did a great job using his vocabulary to put his heart and soul into a very sensitive subject that needed solving. He showed what a caring, worried, earnest man he was. I like to think (but somehow doubt) that I would’ve approached such a subject as well. 

Maybe I need to pull out my thesaurus more often. 

Yes, It's Really Eden

“The title is really ‘Eden’?” I asked, shaking my head. “That’s both uncreative and presumptuous.” 

Then I read it—the poem by Javen Tanner in Fire in the Pasture. And I nodded.

From what I understood, the poem describes a secret meeting and sharing of fruit between the speaker and his lover in a garden. While it’s apparently a modern tale, Tanner makes several references to the story of Adam and Eve throughout the poem. He seems to feel that he and his lover are mirroring Adam and Eve’s experiences in and after the Garden of Eden. 

My basic opinion about what makes poetry “good” is how much or how differently it makes me feel. And I generally have a hard time expressing these feelings in the usual terms. Such is the case with “Eden.” Its Biblical imagery brought a sense of the epic, spiritual, and inevitable. The slight differences between the Bible quotations and the poem’s paraphrases brought depth. And Tanner’s diction brought intimacy.

The diction in particular caught me. For one thing, his use of the word “proxies” in the first line was spot on. I had to look up the word “nomenclature” from the third stanza, and I’m still not sure I know exactly what Tanner meant by it. But that’s part of poetry’s art, too, I think. Perhaps the only word I didn’t like was the word “sick” to describe the air, but it admittedly fit the theme of its surrounding lines. 

And the poem’s final stanza describing the fruit—a peach—and the woman’s heart. . . . Again, I’m not sure if I “get” the lines completely, but they’re perfect:

                delicious and desirable.

                See how it beats and bleeds,

                how it breaks to heal itself.

These lines feel like life. And love. And it made me wonder how breaking heals. But I suppose that’s exactly the point, isn’t it?  

"The Book of Jer3miah": A Page-Turner?

I slid the DVD into the player wondering what to expect. I’d never seen a Mormon webshow before. What I watched was an intriguing, mysterious, and action-filled series about a BYU freshman who learns about suspicious connections he has to the Book of Mormon and the ancient societies described in it. It certainly caught my interest. 

In thinking about the web series, though, I had difficulty deciding how much praise “The Book of Jer3miah” is really worthy of. Its characters are pretty shallow, for one thing. I was especially disappointed that we didn’t get to know Jeremiah better; I’d have liked to either hear more of his thought processes or see more outward expression from him. I did enjoy Porter, though—I felt like he was more enjoyable and three-dimensional than the other characters. And I liked the connection between him and his ancestor Orin Porter Rockwell, although it felt a little overdone. 

I also had some issues with the plot. Jeremiah’s experience with being prompted to kill a man was identical enough to Nephi’s to—at least in my opinion—cheapen it. Again, I’d have preferred a more subtle connection between historical characters and “Jer3miah” characters. In addition, the fact that other BYU students, none of which could’ve been much older than 20, got so negatively involved in the conspiracy surrounding Jeremiah and his special mission seemed pretty unrealistic.  

Overall, the episodes caught my attention, but not my admiration. I’m not sure that I would recommend it as literature or even particularly good entertainment. Not to say that “Jer3miah” is of terrible quality or not worth any consideration. It does seem to have an edge—if not a monopoly—on the Mormon Sci-Fi Thriller, and could perhaps spark the beginning of a new genre. But is “Jer3miah’s” novelty enough to redeem it? 

A Human in the Book of Mormon

I’ve been studying the Book of Mormon since I learned to read. Despite this, I think I’ve been missing some things from it. Sometimes I forget to think of the individual writers of the Book of Mormon as distinct people. Their messages are so unified—physically and spiritually. So I decided to pay close attention this time through to the differences between these men: the words and phrases they use, their moods, and how their individual lives may have influenced those differences. 

For instance, I’d remembered thinking that Jacob was the most poetic writer of the prophets, but I decided to try to quantify it somewhat. I made a list of some poetic words and phrases that were used only by Jacob in the Book of Mormon:

Magnify our/mine office, head of their corner, labor in sin, delicate, familiar, pure in heart, plead your cause, slumber, contempt, unsearchable, good hope, confessed the Christ. 

And another list of words and phrases unique to Jacob:

Sobbings of their hearts, pointing our souls, firmness in spirit, overanxiety, in very word, poured in his Spirit into my soul, lonesome, mourn out our days, adieu. 

Most of those sound pretty depressing, don’t they? Upon closer inspection, I noticed that a large portion of these phrases are found in the chapters wherein Jacob chastises the men in his society who are involved in immorality and tries to speak comfort to their wives and children. In that context, the tender and poignant words made more sense. Jacob did a great job using his vocabulary to put his heart and soul into a very sensitive subject that needed solving. He showed what a caring, worried, earnest man he was. I like to think (but somehow doubt) that I would’ve approached such a subject as well. 

Maybe I need to pull out my thesaurus more often. 

The Focus (or Foci) of Mountains Between Us

If you’re looking for 300 pages of gooey prose about two Mormons falling in love, then Mountains Between Us is not for you. This novel by LDS writer Jenny Proctor focuses on more than romance and growing testimonies.

English teacher Henry is a (bitterly) divorced father of a seven-year-old boy trying to stay involved with his son and escape his pain. He’s also dealing with complicated feelings about his birth father, a criminal who’d given Henry up to be adopted by Henry’s stepfather decades before. Eliza is a Masters degree-holding counselor. She has a newly-rebuilt relationship with her mother and spends much of the novel worrying about her alcoholic older sister. Henry and Eliza end up working at the same boarding school (for troubled teenagers) and are drawn to each other almost immediately. Mountains Between Us documents their professional, personal, and relationship challenges.

One reason this book caught my interest was because of how well I could relate to the setting. Before my mission, I spent about six months working at a behavioral health center with kids from the ages of five to fifteen. We even took most of the kids on a campout at the end of the summer. So, even though I wasn’t an English teacher or therapist, I felt I had a lot in common with Henry and Eliza because of their employment at Rockbridge Academy. I thought Proctor did a great job depicting two kids—one of Henry’s students and one of Eliza’s—and their issues in some depth. However, I’d expected and hoped to hear more details about Henry’s and Eliza’s daily work and some of the other kids. I realize that Proctor was worried about keeping her word count down and that the kids weren’t meant to be the primary focus of the book. But I think she could’ve put a unique spin on the classic LDS romance by spending more time and words on Rockbridge Academy.

That being said, I was grateful that this book deviated from the classic LDS romance in that it focused less on the love interest than most. Proctor took the time to explore Henry’s and Eliza’s respective family relations, inner conflicts, and professional lives, creating a greater sense of balance than I’d experienced in many other LDS romances.  

Overall, I found Mountains Between Us to be well-written, decently unconventional, and realistic. I don’t know that I’d go out of my way to recommend it to LDS readers, but I did enjoy it.

And it gets bonus points for mentioning The Book Thief and Peace Like a River. 

Resources in Will Wonders Never Cease

I've enjoyed reading my classmates' opinions of Doug Thayer's Will Wonders Never Cease. They've noticed several themes in the book and how they relate to other books we've read in our class. Another motif I noticed in the book is that of using and appreciating one's blessings and resources. 

At the novel's start, Kyle spends most of his brainpower whining to himself about pretty much everything--how strict and strange his mom is, how much he hates school, and all the stuff he'd like to have but doesn't. After finding himself buried in the avalanche, however, Kyle has to take an inventory in several ways. 

Physically, Kyle finds and uses everything from orange peels to empty soda cans to keep himself alive. Emotionally, he takes time to acknowledge and deal with his grief over his older brother's death. Spiritually, he ponders what he's been taught about the Gospel his entire life and reaches out to God and his deceased grandfather. For the first time, he realizes how much he has and chooses to use it. This changes him in a realistic and profound way.

This theme of finding and using your talents and resources also shows up in other works we've read in our class. In Dispirited, the protagonist learns she can talk to the spirit of her stepbrother and works to help him. Similarly, the protagonist in Seventh Son finds he has powers and hones them. The LDS faith focuses a lot on our spiritual gifts--talents God has blessed us with--and how they can help us improve the world around us. So it's little surprise that this idea shows up in so much LDS fiction. As well as LDS lives. 

Getting Involved Feels Good

I haven’t been sure exactly where to look for valuable content to read—I’ll continue my search. I looked in several different places over the week, but I’ll share brief stories about two of them.

The first wasn’t actually a blog—it was an online newspaper article and the discussion (via comments) that followed. I tried to get a general idea of what was going on and what people thought about the issue. Then I submitted a comment of my own. I tried to include both my own opinion on the issue as well as acknowledge the truth I’d seen in what I’d read. It wasn’t received as well as I would’ve liked, but I was still glad that I’d made an effort to be a part of the conversation.

My second experience had to do with a young woman—a girl several years older than me from my home ward. I think she babysat me once or twice, but we never knew each other all that well. A few days ago, she gave birth to her first child—at only 24 weeks’ gestation. She, her husband, and the baby have been through quite the adventure this week (including a LifeFlight from St. George to Salt Lake). This woman—a mother now—and her family have been posting on a new blog and all week. But I never read through any of them.

Until yesterday. I spent the time it took to read everything I could about their week, including the many comments on their posts. Although the editor side of my brain itched to make some fixes, I focused on the feelings reading the posts evoked in me. In this aspect, the posts were beautiful. I made a comment on one of the posts about how their words and attitude about their situation inspired those of us reading and watching. Judging by the “likes” my comment got, many people agreed with me.

It felt good to get involved in a cause—in a life—if only by learning what I could about it. I’m grateful for how easy modern technology makes it to do just that. It gives me cherished chances to interact with some wonderful people. 

I know it's late, but . . .

Wow—this book was quite the ride.

Many good things have already been posted about the topics of spirits, bodies, and duality. Another topic that stood out to me as relevant in this story was that of family identity. The theme began without delay, since the story is based on members of two families recently combined into one. Several of the members, particularly Cathy, struggle a bit with these changes and what they bring to their individual and family identities.

Then there’s the family tree scenes. Cathy gets to climb her own—literally (or, at least, as literally as things seemed to get in this book) and learns a bit about her family’s past. But most fascinating to me was the distinct and ultimately crucial power that Cathy gets from her ancestry. She couldn’t have won without it. Her sudden and inexplicable ability to read and speak a new language betray a stronger and deeper connection to her ancestors than most modern readers would buy into. I’d’ve loved to hear some more explanation on this myself. But growing up in the LDS faith and a family who talks pretty frequently and intimately about our heritage lowered my level of skepticism quite a bit. I assume Perkins anticipated this reaction from her LDS readers. I’d love to know what non-LDS readers thought of it. And how Perkins hoped they’d think of it.

The theme of family also assuaged my anger and disappointment at the ending of the story. I was initially pretty ticked off that Blake (the real one) still died after all that trouble. But when Perkins reminded me—us—that Blake’s goal from the very beginning had been to be with his mother? How could I hate that? In hindsight, Perkins did a great job weaving the theme of family and ancestry through the book, and (maybe more importantly) made it clear how vital these are to us all.

I'm Conflicted

Sorry this is so late—it took me longer to get feedback than I’d anticipated.

After expanding and revising my 500-word post “Working Alone” into a 700-word version, I took a deep breath and gave a general invitation to my Facebook friends (many of which I haven’t spoken to in years and a few I’ve never even met in person) to read and comment on my personal essay. One friend (who’d never read any of my writing before) gave several comments; some of them brought a smile, and others have me pretty conflicted.

One positive comment: “Paragraphs are different lengths, you varied sentence structure. All those things people usually forget, you didn’t. J” On the other hand, she’d noticed some grammatical errors. I can handle that—it’s easily fixed.

The comments having to do with content warrant more attention. The plus side: “I like the flow of the paper; the story. It starts off that it’s better to work alone, then you want to be with someone who never appears, and you realize that being alone is, let’s face it, lonely, and in the end you prefer company. It travels and develops.” But then she added, “[I]t’d probably be good to make this more apparent or transparent. Make that theme (if that is the theme) clearer.”

I dunno about this. On one hand, if my readers think something needs to be clearer, then maybe I ought to oblige. But I don’t want to be heavy-handed in my writing. Where’s the art in handing someone the moral of the story on a silver platter? One of my main goals in this essay was to depict the dichotomy of aloneness subtly but perceptively. So far, each of my readers (including the one who made the above comments) have caught this theme. Should I take that as a sign that I’ve made said theme clear enough, or do I need to grit my teeth and make some changes?

Thus I am reunited with one of the aspiring writer’s most troubling questions: “Must I place greater trust and priority in the thoughts of my readers than in my own?” 

Worth Returning To

I knew the plot of “The Prodigal Son” before I read it. And yet John Goldberg managed to surprise me with it.

The play only contains three characters: a father, a son, and the son’s girlfriend. It begins when the teenaged son, Dan, first meets and asks out his future girlfriend, Christy. Goldberg introduces the meat of the play soon after: the unique father-son relationship that (rightly) dominates the story. I’m not sure how Goldberg does it in so few words, but it’s artful. Soon, Dan chooses to investigate Christy’s church: the LDS or Mormon church. His father, reasonable with a capital “R”, had once been a member of but left the church, and he’s extremely unhappy with Dan’s choice. Despite the tension and arguments, Dan gets baptized and eventually goes on a mission. His father refuses to have contact with Dan until about a year into the mission, but the conversation they have at that point shows that their relationship isn’t completely dead. This sense of promise lasts through the ending, which finds Dan home from his mission and eating dinner with his dad.

No, it wasn’t really the plot that surprised me (although it was refreshing to read a Mormon story without a cookie-cutter ending). What got me were Goldberg’s choices in style and how they affected the play.

First of all, it surprised me a bit that this play was formatted as such. A large portion of it was monologues directed at the audience, which made me wonder if it would’ve been effective as an essay or short story. However, then Goldberg would’ve had to find a way to have the essay or story written from two distinct points of view; I suppose avoiding that could’ve been reason enough to write “The Prodigal Son” as a play.

I loved the voices of Dan and his father—very relatable and engaging. I did feel that Dan’s voice was too old for him, though—definitely not 18-year-old material. And I would like to have seen more distinctions between their voices. I felt most of the differences between their monologues were of content instead of style.  

Still, though—the play was an enjoyable read and a relevant one. I may pull a prodigal and return to it one day. 

At least someone can relate

So I shared my posts with my mom. Yeah, my mom. But here's the thing--my mom is a professional writer. I trust her literary opinion and advice a lot. And her response to my post "Working Alone" was probably more literary than the post itself. So I thought I'd share it with y'all.  :)

"I love being alone. Really. I think better, am less nervous, and get more done when there aren't people around. Libby was home from school sick all week, and even though she doesn't require much care, and even though I love her very much and I wouldn't trade the time snuggling and babying her, it put a cramp in my style. I got nothing done. And yes, I know that taking care of my baby (10-year-old) IS doing something. But still.  

 "The flip side: as I sat in a baptism today with my husband on the stand, I had this wave of sadness. I am tired of not sitting by him in church meetings. It's been going on 19 years now that I've been a "pulpit widow." Most of the time I don't think about it. And if I had to do another 19, I would. But I'd rather not. I miss him. I mean, I married him because I like being with him! 

 "So I could totally relate to the blog post 'Working Alone.' I loved the self-deprecating humor. I loved the specific details. I would have laughed out loud at the 'Ever After' reference if I hadn't been worried about the fact that you were crying. I want to know who James is. Like Megan (see comment section), I loved how all these seemingly unrelated details came together loosely under the theme of aloneness. And that although they came together, they weren't necessarily happily-ever-after resolved at the end. Or really resolved at all. Because the issue of being alone versus being with others never really is resolved. It is the eternal dichotomy. Isn't it interesting that salvation is an individual matter, but exhalation can't happen alone!?"

See? My mom is so cool. It was helpful for me to read her post because it helped me see what worked in my post. I was glad to know that someone had felt a connection to it, even if it was "just" my mom. 

Disney Princess Hunger Games

My favorite essayist to read by far was DeNae Handy—she’s just hilarious. I decided to try imitating some aspects of her essay entitled, “I Do, Already.” My essay isn’t about love or marriage or plucking chin hairs, but it’s about my friend group that serves as my BYU family. I tried to base the story mostly on dialogue and to fill it with personality and humor like DeNae did. And to do something different than my last couple posts. Hopefully y’all will enjoy.  :)

(Names have been changed, pictures are mine.)

“It’s gotta be Mulan.”

“Why not Merida? She’s got some sweet archery skills.”

“But does she also have hand-to-hand combat, swordsmanship, and the brains to wipe out an entire army with a single cannon and some snow? I don’t think so.”

It’s our second round of Disney Princess Hunger Games in as many days, and the Gamemakers of Apartment 9¾ are hard at work. We’ve got two whiteboards out: one with a map of the New Orleans arena (drawn by Wes, a native of the NOLA area) and the other with a list of characters and events. 

I’m not sure whose baby this idea was, but we’re the village raising it.

Yeah, we’re pretty weird. But it’s a good weird . . . I think.

Courtney, our Head Gamemaker, sits Gandhi-style (as opposed to Gangnam Style, although she does have talents for dancing) atop an end table, marker in hand. “The map is done, yes?” she asks Wes, who nods and holds up his work.

“‘Waterlogged ghetto’?” Daniel asks, peering at said region of the map.

“The Lower 9^th Ward and Chalmette,” I tell him. “My turf. But it was dry long before my mission even started, Wes.”

“It is pretty ghetto, though,” he says, dodging the elbow I shove at him. “Except for the Brad Pitt houses.”

Leann wrinkles her nose. “Multiple summer homes in one city? Typical Brad Pitt.”

“They’re not his houses,” I clarify. “After Hurricane Katrina, he paid to have all these apartment-style houses built in the spot that had been hit the hardest—gave them away. Nice of him. They were supposed to be ‘trendy’, but mostly they’re just ridiculous.”

“Right?” Wes says. “Their bright colors are pukeworthy.”

Stephanie creeps into the room—probably trying to hide her dressy shirt and curled hair—but gives herself away when she steps on the now-empty bag of Leann’s homemade popcorn. We finished it long ago—I don’t think Leann ate more than a couple handfuls.

“Look who’s all ready for her date!” Courtney squeals.

“You look great!” Gretchen tells Stephanie. “If he compliments your hair, you can thank me. Are you leaving right now?”

“Almost. I’ve just gotta put on my legs.” She rolls up her jeans and straps on her braces.

“Aw—you’ll miss Mulan winning the New Orleans edition,” I tell her.

Jake winces for me. “Actually, Mulan is dead.”

“What? Since when?”

“Since we lit the city on fire.”

“I thought we’d decided on a swarm of nutria rats.”

“That’s not ‘til later.”

A knock at the door fails to interrupt us. “Come in!” we all shout without looking up. In walks Tanner—one of the cutest guys in the complex. Someone who, in my brain’s idealistic fantasy world, actually thinks I’m borderline cool. I remember what we’re doing and wince.

“What are you guys up to?” he asks before spotting the whiteboards. “Oh my gosh—Disney Princess Hunger Games? Are you guys serious?” Before we have time to answer, he rushes on: “Rapunzel is going to win, right? She’s got crazy arm strength from hauling her stepmother into her tower all the time.”

Yeah, we’re a good weird. 

Working Alone

(FYI: Names have been changed. I figure I have no right to embarrass anyone besides myself in this post, ha ha. . . .)

Photo mine

I hate group projects.

The professor of our Business Writing class had told us to come on Friday with rough drafts of the “Methods” section of our proposals. Thursday night, I sent an e-mail to the other members of my group about that. No responses. So I chose one subsection and woke up early Friday morning to whip it up.

The professor never asked for the drafts, so I’d lost sleep for nothing. And I didn’t get much of an explanation from the other group members.

I like them as people. But that’s the problem with group projects: you can’t depend on people—even likable people—to be as committed as you are. It’s safer to work alone.

After class, I walked to the Wilk and picked a table. I generally go straight home, but I needed to work on my internship application, and I get more done on campus than at my apartment. I chose the Wilk because I’d heard James sometimes hangs out there at that time of day. Pathetic, I know.

My pile of work hadn’t shrunk much by the time I got home, but my patience had. So I spent the next hour curled up with Gretchen on her bed finishing her favorite webshow: “The Lizzy Bennett Diaries.” They’re a hundred short clips portraying a modern version of Pride and Prejudice.

I always forget that Gretchen is four years younger than me. She comes off as pretty mature, even with her purple-streaked pixie cut and taste for things like webshows. Maybe it’s her smile. It emits a casual wisdom: earned but taken for granted. She also scored a boyfriend last week—something I’ve never done.

Gretchen eventually headed off to meet said boyfriend somewhere, leaving me to watch the last couple episodes on my own. Of course, the resolution scene (in which Lizzy finally admits her feelings to Darcy and starts a kiss fest) was my favorite. I watched the emotion leak from their eyes and drank it. Clicked “replay” and drank the backwash, too.

When I wandered into the kitchen to grab dinner, all five of my roommates were gone. I took my food back to my room and sat on my bed.

And suddenly I was bawling. It wasn’t my usual cry, or anyone’s, really—the best comparison I can make is to the squeaky hysterics of the Spanish princess in Ever After. I heard my own jagged sobs and wanted to slap myself.  

“Why am I even crying?” I thought. “No one has hurt me.” I forced myself to stop and pinned the whole thing on the combo of sleep deprivation, a hard day, and an evocative video.

A couple roommates and friends made it back from some social event a few minutes later. Apparently I’d gotten all the mascara off, since no one asked about my eyes.

“Anyone up for a round of Nertz?” I asked, holding up one deck of cards and looking for another. You can’t play that game alone. 

Blood, Guts, and Bridges

Writing about myself is generally easy; a 200 word limit changes that. But I hope these few words will convey my self and experiences well.

Inner Struggle

Succeeded by pajamas, the others take their nocturnal stations: blouse in hamper, skirt on hanger, name tag on desk. I crumple into my plastic chair; it sighs with me. 

The page I open to is cleaved up the middle by white stitches. Tonight I enlist my red pen in addition to the black. Red goes first.

I want to do what He wants me to do, but I don’t know what that is.

The black pen responds: God gives us autonomy when He trusts us.

But He shouldn’t trust me.

Remember—President said “Willing and worthy.”

He had. With perpetually carefree smile wilted, eyes darkened behind his glasses, he’d actually told me twice in our latest interview.

But I’m not as willing to do hard things as I should be. And when I don’t do them, that decreases my worthiness.

Black references my morning’s scripture study: “Yea, I know that I am nothing; as to my strength I am weak.”

Yes, but I haven’t helped bring about enough miracles in the land like Ammon did.

“Have we not great reason to rejoice?”

Not if I haven’t done enough. The ink is blood on my hands.

The day’s events and words waft behind my eyes. One Elder’s mantra surfaces, dragging indecisive hope along: “Let the Lord form you His way.”

I’ll try.

Scripture

I smile when the oldest five file in. They join our oldest three, filling the bench everyone recognizes as ours. Jake—four months my junior and ten years my friend—sits next to me. His hand is stained with the guts of my ’94 Escort. I remember with a wince what Jake doesn’t know: that he may never get to finish my car. We might be moving.

The opening prayer lets my eyelids hide my tears. I silently say my own. “How can we leave them?” I ask God—again. “They’re practically family.”

I’ve given up on an answer when a local missionary recounts her recent transfer. I’m only half-listening until she says: “It was hard to leave the people I’d grown to love.” My chin pops up. “Then in my scripture studies, I read this verse.” I lean far enough forward to almost hit the next bench.

“‘I know thy heart, and have heard thy prayers concerning thy brethren.’” The words strum my innards. “‘Be not partial towards them in love above many others, but let thy love be for them as for thyself; and let thy love abound unto all men, and unto all who love my name.’”

It’s a combination of comfort and command, and it rinses my soul. Today this verse is mine.

Wilderness Quest

I trudge up the dirt ramp and pause at the top of the berm. The bristly tamarisks and pubescent cottonwoods have overrun the flood plain below, and the river-side of the ramp must’ve been washed out in my two-year absence. I climb down anyway. 

I have to part and lunge between branches, but I make it. The river is colorless as usual and gunky at the bends, but the tonal flow is loud enough to mask my voice.

I glance upwards for tradition’s sake. “What am I supposed to be doing?” I ask Him. Unstifled sobs bob atop my mind’s flood of questions. “I don’t even know which career I’d want, let alone what I’m meant to choose.”

An attentive silence is in order, and I reach out for any hint of a response. There are no words this time. Nor pictures. But the feeling of being heard smooths my tear stream into a flood plain.

“I know,” I say. “I don’t always get to have a plan. This is teaching me to move forward with faith.” It’s nothing new, and I don’t like it. But it’s true.

As I start back, my ranging gaze lingers on the bridge—the bridge between the islanded neighborhood of my youth to the rest of the world. How long it looks from here.

  

Relatable Uniqueness

Photo mine

Personal writing has always been a favorite genre of mine to read and write. I imagine many agree with me; the very nature of the persona essay seems to make it generally likable. If I had to describe that nature in two words, I would say: relatable uniqueness.

I felt this phrase as watched a couple dozen students’ introductory videos and read five of the matching personal essays.  Many of the stories were near-retellings of experiences I’ve had myself: family councils, auditioning for music groups several times before making it in, funerals of elderly relatives I never knew well. But each essayist brought something foreign to me, whether it was quirky diction, the expression of feelings I’d never had in my parallel experiences, or a scripture connection I’d never thought of.

Admittedly, several essays described events I’ve never seen in my own life, such as the death of a father, and being in an emotionally abusive relationship, and suicide. But I was still able to relate to these essayists because of the emotions they described in their work. So these, too, demonstrated relatable uniqueness.

I would’ve deemed the essays’ video introductions superfluous except for the fact that seeing and hearing the essayists strengthened my connection to them and their writing. The writers who gave me a taste of their stories had the most effective videos for that reason. Similarly, while each essay I read impressed and touched me to some extent, I found certain literary approaches more effective than others. The essays that hit me hardest and quenched my thirst were those with a clear theme carried clearly but not redundantly throughout the piece. I’ll have to remember and apply this when I write my own personal essay(s) in the future.

Confession Time

(Insert rueful grimace.) So I was specifically told long before I started Orson Scott Card's "Seventh Son" that it was at least loosely based on the life and family of Joseph Smith. I guess it was long enough before I read that I completely spaced it. So I wasn't looking for the connections, and I didn't notice them until about three-fourths of the way through the book, when the book's main character gets a piece of his shin bone taken out.Once I saw the first connection, a dozen more suddenly became visible too: a devout mother and less-than-religious father; a son named after his father; the name Alvin and a dead eldest brother; the gathering of good and evil around a simple boy. And more. I couldnt believe I'd been too clueless to notice them sooner.

But maybe that's not such a bad thing. Scholar Tim Blackmore notes that Card "is interested in the believing (or innocent) reader" (Blackmore). Obviously, Card meant this story to mirror Joseph's. But did he mean for it to obviously mirror Joseph's? I enjoyed "Seventh Son" for artistry with words and images long before I found the mirrors--the morality and religion long before I found the Mormonism. And I think that's what Card would've wanted.


Tim Blackmore, "The Image of God"
 http://web.a.ebscohost.com/ehost/detail/detail?sid=e2879af3-4272-4554-a0e3-d6058b515503@sessionmgr4002&vid=4&resultId=1&theDisplayFormat=CitationAndFullText&ReturnUrl=%252fehost%252fresults%252fresultlist%253fsid%253de2879af3-4272-4554-a0e3-d6058b515503%2540sessionmgr4002%2526vid%253d4%2526resultId%253d_resultId_

Memory, Learning, Reality

Since childhood, I’ve recognized the value of writing things down. Something written is something remembered. The act of recording something also forces you to think it through, thereby teaching you more about itself. And writing something down makes it real.

Generally, these perks—memory, learning, and reality—have made journaling a favorite activity of mine. But a three-month gap in my high school journal proves an exception. I didn’t want to remember or learn anything else about that time. And more than anything, I wished it didn’t have to be real.

My intent had been to banish the memories, but instead I’d put them under house arrest. The unexpressed anger, questions, and grief stiffened my soul.

So one day I gave in. I wrote. Not in my journal—not in a way that would make much sense to anyone else. This time it was a poem. Literarily, it wasn’t much. It didn’t even kick out the memories. 

But it brought her to my door: Peace. And she—she picked the lock, creaked open the door, and called in restful tones, “You need not stay here—you are free to go.” She was speaking to the memories, but also to me.

All of us return now and again, but only when we choose to—when we’re ready for the learning and reality. But Peace always comes with us. And she makes all the difference.    


Other spiritual-literary experiences:

• Seeing myself in the character of a story I was writing--and thereby something I needed to change
• Understanding an Emily Dickinson poem so well it knocked the wind out of me
• Venting my anger at a boy through a poem (and then forgiving him about three rereads later)
• Watching the film version (with Kenneth Branagh one, of course) of "Much Ado About Nothing" and realizing why Shakespeare is worth studying in every single English class
• Finishing the "Harry Potter" series and feeling like I'd lost one of my closest friends
• The first time I wrote a sonnet (incorrectly, but that didn't end up being important), which made that form my favorite to write in
• Receiving "letters" (actually script-style records of conversations with near-edible morsels of personality) from my family on my mission

Is This "Saturday's Warrior"?

According to Nephi Anderson, his book, Added Upon, “is an effort to give in brief an outline of ‘the scheme of things,’ ‘the ways of God to men’ as taught by the Gospel of Christ and believed by the Latter-day Saints” (see “Preface to the Third Edition”). By that standard, Added Upon does its job. It follows several people—most of whom become married couples in mortality—through their pre-mortal, mortal, and post-mortal lives, specifically as they relate to their dealings with and views of God. While, naturally, most characters and many details therein are fictional or at least guesswork, Anderson backs up the most important points, events, and doctrines with scriptures, mostly from the Bible. 

Anyone familiar with the play-turned-movie “Saturday’s Warrior” (another so-called “salvation story”) will be strongly reminded of it in reading Added Upon (or vice versa—the first edition of Added Upon actually predates the first performance of “Saturday’s Warrior” by 75 years). However, the two works have important differences, mostly due to their respective purposes and audiences. By my understanding, “Saturday’s Warrior” was created primarily as entertainment for Latter-day Saints. 

Added Upon, however, targets—and teaches—those not members of the LDS church. It focuses on outlining “The Plan of Salvation”, as the Latter-day Saints call it. It gives less attention to characters than “Saturday’s Warrior” does, which may be the reason I found it much less diverting. I was, however, impressed by the extensive scripture references; as I tried viewing the book from a non-LDS perspective, I found these references interesting and convincing. While many Latter-day Saints would call Added Upon “old news”, I learned a couple things from it.

Literarily, I enjoyed and admired Anderson’s beautifully delicate voice, which seemed suited to the content and purpose of the book. I was less pleased with the highly formal tone, which admittedly could be attributed more to the age of the book than to Anderson’s style. While I might not label Added Upon as great literature, I would be happy to recommend it to a friend interested in learning more about our LDS beliefs on life before, on, and after this earth.    

My Oldest Habit

Of the many family home videos on the shelf back home, only one of them is in VHS form: “Katie’s First Christmas.” While two of the scenes captured therein include my role as the baby Jesus in our family’s Nativity Scene and Mom showing off Christmas presents to camera-wielding Dad, my favorite event to watch is unrelated to the holiday. It involves my eleven-month-old self bringing a book to my mother. I hand it to her and let her place me on her lap with the casual air of routine. She reads it—“The Going to Bed Book”—aloud, and lets me turn the pages.

Reading is, then, one of my most longstanding habits (although “addiction” might be more apt word in this case). Consistent reading increased my vocabulary, communication skills, and pleasure; I was hooked. By middle school, it got to the point where I couldn't eat without reading simultaneously, even if it was just the back of the cereal box.

Middle school was also the point when I made one of my most sacred and influential vows to myself: that I would never again let a day go by without studying God’s word. I’d had much experience with the scriptures before, but my consistency with (and thus yield from) them had fluctuated. I knew, due in part to the benefits of my secular reading, the power of habit.

Thus far, I have kept my vow, and intend to for the rest of my life. The expected—indeed, promised—blessings of increased knowledge, wisdom, moral strength, and influence of the Holy Ghost have been mine. As much joy as nearly any piece of literature brings me, the word of God brings the most. And that, my friends, is saying something.