What do you call it when my wife
(1) gets all the kids ready for church because I am at early-morning meetings
(2) takes the tired, ornery baby during the last hour of church so I can be free to attend to my church responsibilities unimpeded,
(3) lets me attend choir practice, while she instead spends the hours right after church making her famous homemade rolls for our family dinner,
(4) makes a batch of cookies in addition,
(5) lets me--in fact, encourages me--to take a nap after choir practice, before heading out to the dinner,
(6) while gathered with the family, during a special moment of quiet reflection and solemnity involving my father with cancer, basically takes herself out of the picture by removing of all the noisy little kids, so the rest of the adults can enjoy the moment,
(7) is willing to take the kids home and put them to bed while I linger just a little longer with Mom and Dad on this special night,
(8) does a hundred more things that I probably fail to take notice of?
I don't know.
But whatever you call it, I certainly don't deserve it. I often really don't deserve her at all. And that's the unblemished truth.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wife Rule #120: It's Nice to Share
It's one of those lessons you learn in kindergarten. It makes snack time go so much more smoothly. It makes your mom happy because there's less fighting in the home. It helps people to like you. It even helps you win friends and influence people (just ask the lobbyists).
It's nice to share!
And tonight is one of those nights where the niceness of sharing is on the top of my mind, because I just got back from a very uplifting meeting and I'm floating a little. It's nice to come home in such a mood and grab the hand of my sweetheart and lift her up onto the cloud with me. The view is great up here tonight.
On the other end of the spectrum, we've recently had some more bad news with regard to my dad's cancer. It's nice to have someone to share that with, too. Her shoulders and neck are just the right height that when such tidings sort of drain the life right out of us, we can lean against each other and our heads kind of fit together. We can help to hold each other up when we share the downs.
And when we sat together Monday night with our little flock of five kids and watched Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone for the first time together (we recently finished the book), and little 1-year-old Charity decided that instead of watching the movie, she would dance and twirl and look over her shoulder and shrug and flirt a lot, we shared a giggle, and then we shared a laugh.
Sometimes after the kids have gone to bed, and we have diligently denied them dessert (because good parents have to do that sometimes), we share an indulgence of a dish of ice cream. Often when we share this way, we have to get seconds. But we share those too.
And last of all, before (and often after) we turn off the lamps in our bedroom, we share a final wrap-up conversation for the day. It's often the first chance we've really had to talk when the rest of the house is shrouded in silence. It's a great time to decompress, to discuss our kids, our parents, our siblings, our neighbors, and certainly not least, our marriage. We analyze, we plan, and sometimes we share a dream, just a little bit.
It doesn't matter so much what we are sharing; the important part is that we are sharing, at least a little bit, every day. We're both so much richer for it.
You can take that to the bank.
It's nice to share!
And tonight is one of those nights where the niceness of sharing is on the top of my mind, because I just got back from a very uplifting meeting and I'm floating a little. It's nice to come home in such a mood and grab the hand of my sweetheart and lift her up onto the cloud with me. The view is great up here tonight.
On the other end of the spectrum, we've recently had some more bad news with regard to my dad's cancer. It's nice to have someone to share that with, too. Her shoulders and neck are just the right height that when such tidings sort of drain the life right out of us, we can lean against each other and our heads kind of fit together. We can help to hold each other up when we share the downs.
And when we sat together Monday night with our little flock of five kids and watched Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone for the first time together (we recently finished the book), and little 1-year-old Charity decided that instead of watching the movie, she would dance and twirl and look over her shoulder and shrug and flirt a lot, we shared a giggle, and then we shared a laugh.
Sometimes after the kids have gone to bed, and we have diligently denied them dessert (because good parents have to do that sometimes), we share an indulgence of a dish of ice cream. Often when we share this way, we have to get seconds. But we share those too.
And last of all, before (and often after) we turn off the lamps in our bedroom, we share a final wrap-up conversation for the day. It's often the first chance we've really had to talk when the rest of the house is shrouded in silence. It's a great time to decompress, to discuss our kids, our parents, our siblings, our neighbors, and certainly not least, our marriage. We analyze, we plan, and sometimes we share a dream, just a little bit.
It doesn't matter so much what we are sharing; the important part is that we are sharing, at least a little bit, every day. We're both so much richer for it.
You can take that to the bank.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Wife Rule #119: Shoot for the Stars
She loves me, and that opens up a universe of opportunity.
We recently got back from three days--three marvelous days--of "roughing it" in the form of camping, cooking, and hiking in the wild, at Arches National Park.
Arches National Park isn't just any dumb old national park, either. It is a technicolor wonderland of sculpted red rock fins and canyons, hidden surprises and treasures, astonishing life eking out an existence under impossible circumstances, and electric blue skies so intense that they could literally cause your brain to blow a fuse if you stare heavenward too long.
And for me, it's absolutely dripping with nostalgia. Arches is a large part of the magic stuff of my childhood memories. It is where Dad used to drive us after he got off work, arriving late into the night when all we could make out were the strange silhouettes of the red rock formations against a backdrop of starry sky. It is where we once got lost in the maze called the Fiery Furnace and had to "escape" by lowering ourselves down cliffs and landing in secret arches in the sandstone fins. It is where I caught my severe case of desert fever, which still tends to flare up every spring and fall. It is where I first learned to love camping and hiking. It is where I concentrate my current efforts to brainwash my children into loving camping and hiking.
And it's working.
My younger sister, her husband, and her toddler accompanied us on this trip. At one point, as she struggled with her very energetic little boy, she pondered the work required for us to lug our family of seven (five children, ages 9 to 1) out here in the sand and rock, and asked my wife, "Why do you keep doing this?"
"If only you knew how much Matt loves this, you would understand," was my wife's simple reply.
Because she loves me.
And I love her, too. I also do inconvenient things to accommodate her needs and wants. We sometimes "go to Arches" for her, in her own way. We have agreed to do this stuff, together. It's just part of the package.
One of my favorite moments this trip was late the second night, after my wife had taken the younger three children to bed in the furnace-equipped trailer (it gets cold in the desert at night). I was sitting with my two older daughters by the last glowing embers of the fire, enjoying the silence and the stars before heading off to our tent. There was no moon during the duration of our trip, which opened the starry heavens above us in a glorious fashion. I can't remember ever seeing the Milky Way so clearly and distinctly before; we could make out individual shapes and features in the visible arm of our galaxy and discuss them together. We saw a number of shooting stars and spent a long while staring upward, relishing in the sights that are only available away from civilization.
I took the opportunity to tell my two daughters of the covenants the Lord made to Abraham and Sarah, that their posterity would be "as the stars of the heaven" (Genesis 22:17). After all, when the Lord made those promises to Abraham, he was most likely sitting under a starry sky much like this one, undiluted by city lights, in the stillness of the desert.
The stars of the heaven: mere billions is a drop in the bucket. The expanse of God's creations, as evidenced by the swirling clouds of light visible tonight, far exceeds the scope of what our minds are capable of comprehending.
This is what He promised to Abraham and his wife. This is what a husband and wife, joined together by God's power, are capable of. Consider the alternatives, I told my young daughters: an eternity of solitude, unattached to loved ones, or a family as great as the stars in the heavens.
My wife and I, after all, love each other. The small choices, like trips to Arches, are evidence enough of that. We're shooting for the stars.
We recently got back from three days--three marvelous days--of "roughing it" in the form of camping, cooking, and hiking in the wild, at Arches National Park.
Arches National Park isn't just any dumb old national park, either. It is a technicolor wonderland of sculpted red rock fins and canyons, hidden surprises and treasures, astonishing life eking out an existence under impossible circumstances, and electric blue skies so intense that they could literally cause your brain to blow a fuse if you stare heavenward too long.
And for me, it's absolutely dripping with nostalgia. Arches is a large part of the magic stuff of my childhood memories. It is where Dad used to drive us after he got off work, arriving late into the night when all we could make out were the strange silhouettes of the red rock formations against a backdrop of starry sky. It is where we once got lost in the maze called the Fiery Furnace and had to "escape" by lowering ourselves down cliffs and landing in secret arches in the sandstone fins. It is where I caught my severe case of desert fever, which still tends to flare up every spring and fall. It is where I first learned to love camping and hiking. It is where I concentrate my current efforts to brainwash my children into loving camping and hiking.
And it's working.
My younger sister, her husband, and her toddler accompanied us on this trip. At one point, as she struggled with her very energetic little boy, she pondered the work required for us to lug our family of seven (five children, ages 9 to 1) out here in the sand and rock, and asked my wife, "Why do you keep doing this?"
"If only you knew how much Matt loves this, you would understand," was my wife's simple reply.
Because she loves me.
And I love her, too. I also do inconvenient things to accommodate her needs and wants. We sometimes "go to Arches" for her, in her own way. We have agreed to do this stuff, together. It's just part of the package.
One of my favorite moments this trip was late the second night, after my wife had taken the younger three children to bed in the furnace-equipped trailer (it gets cold in the desert at night). I was sitting with my two older daughters by the last glowing embers of the fire, enjoying the silence and the stars before heading off to our tent. There was no moon during the duration of our trip, which opened the starry heavens above us in a glorious fashion. I can't remember ever seeing the Milky Way so clearly and distinctly before; we could make out individual shapes and features in the visible arm of our galaxy and discuss them together. We saw a number of shooting stars and spent a long while staring upward, relishing in the sights that are only available away from civilization.
I took the opportunity to tell my two daughters of the covenants the Lord made to Abraham and Sarah, that their posterity would be "as the stars of the heaven" (Genesis 22:17). After all, when the Lord made those promises to Abraham, he was most likely sitting under a starry sky much like this one, undiluted by city lights, in the stillness of the desert.
The stars of the heaven: mere billions is a drop in the bucket. The expanse of God's creations, as evidenced by the swirling clouds of light visible tonight, far exceeds the scope of what our minds are capable of comprehending.
This is what He promised to Abraham and his wife. This is what a husband and wife, joined together by God's power, are capable of. Consider the alternatives, I told my young daughters: an eternity of solitude, unattached to loved ones, or a family as great as the stars in the heavens.
My wife and I, after all, love each other. The small choices, like trips to Arches, are evidence enough of that. We're shooting for the stars.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Wife Rule #118: Just Had to Share
As you recall,
I didn't sleep well last night
because of the rain blowing in.
It's the first storm of autumn,
bringing a sudden, delicious drop in temperature
and promising a scintillating smorgasbord for the senses,
just around the corner:
eye-popping color-candy in the boughs of the trees,
the pleasant crunch of leaves underfoot,
the earthy smell of decay in the air,
and the harvest of all the year's promise,
culminating in a cornucopia of holiday tradition.
What's not to love?
As I rounded a bend
in the rain-slick road on my way into work,
the curtain of moody, slate sky parted momentarily,
revealing twelve-thousand-foot Timponogos
adorned like a bride,
with virgin snow atop
and delicate patterns of frost
extending to where the foothills were shrouded
beneath a soft bank of low-lying mist.
Underneath this veil
the mountain still blushed with the crab-apple hues
of a fleeting autumn that will fade much faster
than it will here, in the valley.
After only a moment the curtain closed,
dousing the brief, fiery spotlight
that shone with such vigor on the scene
and dissolving the view once again
into a uniform pattern of wet road and milky sky.
It may all be gone tomorrow,
and I didn't have a camera.
But still, I just had to share.
So, my Love, there you go.
I didn't sleep well last night
because of the rain blowing in.
It's the first storm of autumn,
bringing a sudden, delicious drop in temperature
and promising a scintillating smorgasbord for the senses,
just around the corner:
eye-popping color-candy in the boughs of the trees,
the pleasant crunch of leaves underfoot,
the earthy smell of decay in the air,
and the harvest of all the year's promise,
culminating in a cornucopia of holiday tradition.
What's not to love?
As I rounded a bend
in the rain-slick road on my way into work,
the curtain of moody, slate sky parted momentarily,
revealing twelve-thousand-foot Timponogos
adorned like a bride,
with virgin snow atop
and delicate patterns of frost
extending to where the foothills were shrouded
beneath a soft bank of low-lying mist.
Underneath this veil
the mountain still blushed with the crab-apple hues
of a fleeting autumn that will fade much faster
than it will here, in the valley.
After only a moment the curtain closed,
dousing the brief, fiery spotlight
that shone with such vigor on the scene
and dissolving the view once again
into a uniform pattern of wet road and milky sky.
It may all be gone tomorrow,
and I didn't have a camera.
But still, I just had to share.
So, my Love, there you go.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Wife Rule #117: The Price of Love
Life can certainly throw some interesting curve-balls. There are times when part of the learning that takes place here in mortality involves accepting things that are not at all pleasant to think about; things that would seem to be much better left ignored or buried; ugly things, not of your own choosing, that leave you feeling dirty for them merely having passed through your brain.
Some of these things are so earth-shattering that they momentarily suspend your current view of reality. This can happen with such abruptness that it feels as if you are experiencing one of those moments in a movie where from the protagonist's point of view, everyone and everything suddenly freezes: the person walking in mid-step; the bird in mid-flight; the falling fountain water in mid-air, turning to solid, hovering orbs of crystal. Even molecular motion is suspended and with it, all sense of warmth evaporates. You are left alone with your thoughts, to struggle to make sense of the world around you. Such physics-defying times tend to alter your perceptions of reality, rewriting history and turning your well-set tables upside down.
This of course is disconcerting in its mildest instances, and devastating in its worse forms. You suddenly find yourself questioning everything and everyone and wondering what you can truly count on. You realize that certain assumptions you have harbored for years may have been false. You cease to take anything for granted; everything is suddenly back on the table. You find yourself grasping out into the coldness of space for something--anything--solid to cling to. You feel very vulnerable and very, very small, in a big, wide, unfeeling world that continues mercilessly on without you. You realize that it is not the world that is paralyzed, but you.
And then you latch onto something solid.
For there is truth in this world of ambiguity. There is a source of light, and warmth, and knowledge that permeates the cold emptiness of space with a life-giving sustenance that makes these times endurable. There is a God in heaven, who understands everything we encounter here, for He has been here! He condescended with the express purpose of gathering His own infinite store of such experiences, so that His balm might be perfectly suited to our hours of greatest need. He knows us, for He created us. He is the one who uttered eternal laws into existence, and those laws provide a solid framework upon which rests the universe. There is a cosmic order in the apparent chaos that surrounds us.
He has not left us alone. No matter how deep the hurt, or how tragic the fall, or how bewildering the pain, or how blinding the confusion, there are agents here to help us. There are those who care for us, who pray for us, who are anxious to bless us as His hands on earth.
And even in the times when we truly are alone, He is there personally to nurture us with the Comforter, wrapping us in a warm, hand-made quilt of sufficient scope to completely cover our needs.
I have been blessed with an abundance of such heavenly help. Parents, brothers, sisters, friends, and neighbors all tend to my comfort. And my closest, most personal ministering angel is a thirty-something woman of towering strength. She supports me with a bulwark of faith, hope, and love that lends such buoyancy to my sometimes heavy-laden shoulders, that I know I will never fall with her to back me up. Such is the nature of my companion, whose faithfulness and love stretches into the distant horizon, as apparently infinite as our Savior's love, the source from whence it sprang.
It is Life--with its curve-balls and earth-shattering moments--that proves such love, wringing it out of us, forcing it to flee from the abstract theoretical sphere into the solid realm of real experience. And that, in the end, is a gift worth paying for, even if the price at times seems very high.
Some of these things are so earth-shattering that they momentarily suspend your current view of reality. This can happen with such abruptness that it feels as if you are experiencing one of those moments in a movie where from the protagonist's point of view, everyone and everything suddenly freezes: the person walking in mid-step; the bird in mid-flight; the falling fountain water in mid-air, turning to solid, hovering orbs of crystal. Even molecular motion is suspended and with it, all sense of warmth evaporates. You are left alone with your thoughts, to struggle to make sense of the world around you. Such physics-defying times tend to alter your perceptions of reality, rewriting history and turning your well-set tables upside down.
This of course is disconcerting in its mildest instances, and devastating in its worse forms. You suddenly find yourself questioning everything and everyone and wondering what you can truly count on. You realize that certain assumptions you have harbored for years may have been false. You cease to take anything for granted; everything is suddenly back on the table. You find yourself grasping out into the coldness of space for something--anything--solid to cling to. You feel very vulnerable and very, very small, in a big, wide, unfeeling world that continues mercilessly on without you. You realize that it is not the world that is paralyzed, but you.
And then you latch onto something solid.
For there is truth in this world of ambiguity. There is a source of light, and warmth, and knowledge that permeates the cold emptiness of space with a life-giving sustenance that makes these times endurable. There is a God in heaven, who understands everything we encounter here, for He has been here! He condescended with the express purpose of gathering His own infinite store of such experiences, so that His balm might be perfectly suited to our hours of greatest need. He knows us, for He created us. He is the one who uttered eternal laws into existence, and those laws provide a solid framework upon which rests the universe. There is a cosmic order in the apparent chaos that surrounds us.
He has not left us alone. No matter how deep the hurt, or how tragic the fall, or how bewildering the pain, or how blinding the confusion, there are agents here to help us. There are those who care for us, who pray for us, who are anxious to bless us as His hands on earth.
And even in the times when we truly are alone, He is there personally to nurture us with the Comforter, wrapping us in a warm, hand-made quilt of sufficient scope to completely cover our needs.
I have been blessed with an abundance of such heavenly help. Parents, brothers, sisters, friends, and neighbors all tend to my comfort. And my closest, most personal ministering angel is a thirty-something woman of towering strength. She supports me with a bulwark of faith, hope, and love that lends such buoyancy to my sometimes heavy-laden shoulders, that I know I will never fall with her to back me up. Such is the nature of my companion, whose faithfulness and love stretches into the distant horizon, as apparently infinite as our Savior's love, the source from whence it sprang.
It is Life--with its curve-balls and earth-shattering moments--that proves such love, wringing it out of us, forcing it to flee from the abstract theoretical sphere into the solid realm of real experience. And that, in the end, is a gift worth paying for, even if the price at times seems very high.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Wife Rule #116: I Kid You Not
"I was looking at Dawn today, and I noticed that she has absolutely beautiful eyes," my wife gushed to me recently. "I always knew that Dawn has my eyes," she continued. That's true. People have been telling my wife that so often since Dawn's birth that there was no room for disputing that fact. And then she reached her conclusion: "That means that my eyes are beautiful too!"
No kidding.
How many hundreds of times have I told her that over the last fourteen years? Hasn't she noticed how many times I find myself staring shamelessly into her wide, innocent, eyes? Doesn't she know that looking into her eyes is like being immersed in the deep blue expanse of the sea? Like gazing into the light-filled heavens on a moonless night? Like being warmed by candlelight in winter? Like the visions of color created by sunlight streaming through stained glass cathedral windows? Like being captured and held frozen by such breathtaking beauty that you are rendered utterly helpless? Like beholding incarnate kindness and unbounded grace? Like glimpsing the very wonder of eternity?
Yes, dear. Your eyes.
Duh.
No kidding.
How many hundreds of times have I told her that over the last fourteen years? Hasn't she noticed how many times I find myself staring shamelessly into her wide, innocent, eyes? Doesn't she know that looking into her eyes is like being immersed in the deep blue expanse of the sea? Like gazing into the light-filled heavens on a moonless night? Like being warmed by candlelight in winter? Like the visions of color created by sunlight streaming through stained glass cathedral windows? Like being captured and held frozen by such breathtaking beauty that you are rendered utterly helpless? Like beholding incarnate kindness and unbounded grace? Like glimpsing the very wonder of eternity?
Yes, dear. Your eyes.
Duh.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Wife Rule #115: Find the One
Some of the most powerful learning moments in life come from experiences my wife and I share together. As background, consider what the Savior taught in Luke 15:
4 What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?
5 And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing.
6 And when he cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbours, saying unto them, Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost.
7 I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth....
I have had faith in Jesus Christ since I young. This faith has only grown stronger as life's experiences have worked their lessons on me. I have never considered myself to be one of the "lost sheep." Sure, I'm a sinner, but I have always known the way back; my sins have been out of weakness or pride, not out of ignorance. But last weekend I gained a little bit of insight into how grateful a truly "lost sheep" can be for those who find it and bring it home.
We were in Idaho, to celebrate my wife's sister's wedding with our family. On the morning of the wedding, we were to leave from where we were staying in Idaho Falls about an hour before the wedding, to travel to the Rexburg temple, where the wedding would take place. We both thought we knew the way, having traveled through Rexburg a couple of times in past years. I knew that when we got to the highway, we turned right and drove until we got to Rexburg. What we didn’t realize is that there was more than one possible road to travel.
As we set out, we made the mistake of turning right on the first highway we encountered. We were running just a little behind, and I was driving as fast as I dared. We tried to distract our restless kids by pointing out the beautiful scenery around us: rolling fields of golden hay with forested mountains on either side of the valley. I was a little puzzled when I recognized the Snake River running parallel to the highway, and I wondered why we hadn’t seen any mileage signs for Rexburg yet, but it wasn’t until the road started turning and descended towards the river that I realized--to my horror--that we were on the wrong road.
After verifying our error at a little tourist shop, my wife burst into tears. The wedding was starting in fifteen minutes and we were now thirty minutes out of Idaho Falls, in the wrong direction. We turned around and started back, going faster than ever, but we really didn’t know where we had gone wrong or how to get on the right road. We desperately tried calling my wife's siblings, but we could not hear anything on our cell phone. After several failed attempts to call for help, we realized our phone had been put into headphones mode, probably through random button-pushing by little Charity. We didn’t know how to fix it. We were stuck. It was now 11:00, time for the wedding, and we were still lost. My wife broke into fresh tears.
Then, as an answer to our silent prayers, the phone rang. She tried to answer it, but again, no sound. Then she remembered that there was a speaker phone feature, and by using that, we were able to finally hear the sweet sound of a concerned brother’s voice, calling to find out why we were not with the rest of the family. We knew we were hopelessly too late, since the sealer performing the wedding, the photographer, the luncheon, and the reception all hinged on a tight schedule for the day. Still, we felt a great deal of comfort knowing that the family was aware of our predicament. She told her brother where we were, that we were probably still 45 minutes away from Rexburg, and that they should go on without us and we would eventually find our way there. After heartfelt “I love you’s” from both ends of the phone, she hung up.
Ten minutes later, as we were approaching Idaho Falls, the phone rang again. It was another brother, one who knew the roads, who understood where we had gone wrong, and who was able to give us detailed directions to get us onto the right highway. His step-by-step instructions probably prevented us from getting lost again, we were so frazzled and disoriented by this point. Again, already ten minutes after the wedding start time, my wife asked them to go on without us.
We finally made it onto the correct highway and saw the road signs confirming this. We were about fifteen minutes out of Rexburg when the phone rang again. It was a brother again, checking up on our progress and making sure we knew which exit to take. My wife broke into tears again, and then on the phone came the voice of the sweet, old temple president. He wanted to assure us personally that they would wait to begin until we arrived.
When we got to the temple, all the workers were waiting for us. They ushered our kids into the waiting area and a worker had us run up the back stairway, since that would be faster than the elevator. When we reached the third floor, panting, my wife's sister and her fiance were there, waiting for us with a smile. They embraced their lost sister and brother in a big hug and told us that how glad they were that we had made it and that they never would have gone on without us.
In all, close to “ninety and nine” people waited for almost an hour for us at the temple. The rest of the day we had both old and new family members telling us how glad they were that we made it. This was sometimes mixed with some good-natured ribbing (I got a new nickname: "Tom-Tom"), but never in a resentful way. There was no passing judgment, no rebuke. Our desperation and embarrassment at having been the “lost sheep” gradually melted away to feelings of gratitude and love for those who reached out to us and waited for us, and that in the end, the whole family was together in the temple. We were whole.
My wife and I have talked about this experience a lot over the last week. There are many good analogies that can be drawn from it, but one stands out to us. Every person on earth is a child of God and thus, we are all one big family. God wants nothing more than to gather the whole family together, for eternity. We know that not everyone wants to follow the Savior, but there are many--millions or perhaps even billions--who would gladly gather together with the believers if only there was someone to reach out and show them the way--to gather home the lost sheep. And we need not get overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task--all it takes is finding those who want to be found, one by one.
Find the one.
(I told this story as part of a talk I gave in our church services today. You can read the full text here.)
4 What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?
5 And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing.
6 And when he cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbours, saying unto them, Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost.
7 I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth....
I have had faith in Jesus Christ since I young. This faith has only grown stronger as life's experiences have worked their lessons on me. I have never considered myself to be one of the "lost sheep." Sure, I'm a sinner, but I have always known the way back; my sins have been out of weakness or pride, not out of ignorance. But last weekend I gained a little bit of insight into how grateful a truly "lost sheep" can be for those who find it and bring it home.
We were in Idaho, to celebrate my wife's sister's wedding with our family. On the morning of the wedding, we were to leave from where we were staying in Idaho Falls about an hour before the wedding, to travel to the Rexburg temple, where the wedding would take place. We both thought we knew the way, having traveled through Rexburg a couple of times in past years. I knew that when we got to the highway, we turned right and drove until we got to Rexburg. What we didn’t realize is that there was more than one possible road to travel.
As we set out, we made the mistake of turning right on the first highway we encountered. We were running just a little behind, and I was driving as fast as I dared. We tried to distract our restless kids by pointing out the beautiful scenery around us: rolling fields of golden hay with forested mountains on either side of the valley. I was a little puzzled when I recognized the Snake River running parallel to the highway, and I wondered why we hadn’t seen any mileage signs for Rexburg yet, but it wasn’t until the road started turning and descended towards the river that I realized--to my horror--that we were on the wrong road.
After verifying our error at a little tourist shop, my wife burst into tears. The wedding was starting in fifteen minutes and we were now thirty minutes out of Idaho Falls, in the wrong direction. We turned around and started back, going faster than ever, but we really didn’t know where we had gone wrong or how to get on the right road. We desperately tried calling my wife's siblings, but we could not hear anything on our cell phone. After several failed attempts to call for help, we realized our phone had been put into headphones mode, probably through random button-pushing by little Charity. We didn’t know how to fix it. We were stuck. It was now 11:00, time for the wedding, and we were still lost. My wife broke into fresh tears.
Then, as an answer to our silent prayers, the phone rang. She tried to answer it, but again, no sound. Then she remembered that there was a speaker phone feature, and by using that, we were able to finally hear the sweet sound of a concerned brother’s voice, calling to find out why we were not with the rest of the family. We knew we were hopelessly too late, since the sealer performing the wedding, the photographer, the luncheon, and the reception all hinged on a tight schedule for the day. Still, we felt a great deal of comfort knowing that the family was aware of our predicament. She told her brother where we were, that we were probably still 45 minutes away from Rexburg, and that they should go on without us and we would eventually find our way there. After heartfelt “I love you’s” from both ends of the phone, she hung up.
Ten minutes later, as we were approaching Idaho Falls, the phone rang again. It was another brother, one who knew the roads, who understood where we had gone wrong, and who was able to give us detailed directions to get us onto the right highway. His step-by-step instructions probably prevented us from getting lost again, we were so frazzled and disoriented by this point. Again, already ten minutes after the wedding start time, my wife asked them to go on without us.
We finally made it onto the correct highway and saw the road signs confirming this. We were about fifteen minutes out of Rexburg when the phone rang again. It was a brother again, checking up on our progress and making sure we knew which exit to take. My wife broke into tears again, and then on the phone came the voice of the sweet, old temple president. He wanted to assure us personally that they would wait to begin until we arrived.
When we got to the temple, all the workers were waiting for us. They ushered our kids into the waiting area and a worker had us run up the back stairway, since that would be faster than the elevator. When we reached the third floor, panting, my wife's sister and her fiance were there, waiting for us with a smile. They embraced their lost sister and brother in a big hug and told us that how glad they were that we had made it and that they never would have gone on without us.
In all, close to “ninety and nine” people waited for almost an hour for us at the temple. The rest of the day we had both old and new family members telling us how glad they were that we made it. This was sometimes mixed with some good-natured ribbing (I got a new nickname: "Tom-Tom"), but never in a resentful way. There was no passing judgment, no rebuke. Our desperation and embarrassment at having been the “lost sheep” gradually melted away to feelings of gratitude and love for those who reached out to us and waited for us, and that in the end, the whole family was together in the temple. We were whole.
My wife and I have talked about this experience a lot over the last week. There are many good analogies that can be drawn from it, but one stands out to us. Every person on earth is a child of God and thus, we are all one big family. God wants nothing more than to gather the whole family together, for eternity. We know that not everyone wants to follow the Savior, but there are many--millions or perhaps even billions--who would gladly gather together with the believers if only there was someone to reach out and show them the way--to gather home the lost sheep. And we need not get overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task--all it takes is finding those who want to be found, one by one.
Find the one.
(I told this story as part of a talk I gave in our church services today. You can read the full text here.)
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