The rest of the story

I have vivid memories of my dad driving me to school after seminary.
The local radio station would play Paul Harvey's "The Rest of the Story" segments.

I loved those segments. I love the concept that we think we can know the story of something...the purpose of something...but that often, there is a "the rest of the story" that we simply never know about.

I have debated sharing this experience because it is so very sweet to my heart and I'm so overwhelmed the Lord let me have a part in it. But, I've decided to share it this morning as a reminder of a couple of things:

1.) God needs us.
2.) He is willing to use us.
3.) What we do matters. It matters a lot.
4.) And we many never know how much.

Earlier this summer I spoke at a girls camp (one of a dozen I got to do this summer). One of the things I shared in my message this year was my experience with the half-marathon, often sharing the power of the cheers that got me through the finish line.

At one girls camp in particular, I felt impressed to tell the girls that there are people in their lives they can see who are cheering them on and people in their lives who they might not be able to see who are cheering them on as well.

In the past week, I've been contacted by two different people relating to me "the rest of the story". One was a cousin who's wife's little sister was at that camp. One was a leader who was there and wanted me to know what happened.

There was a girl at that girls camp who was really impacted by the message I felt impressed to give that night. So impressed that she came home and talked about it, relating the message of the power of the cheers

Several weeks later, her life was taken in a tragic car accident.

Her mother was not scheduled to speak at the funeral. But, at the last minute, she wanted to share some words.

She spoke of a message her daughter had heard at girls camp earlier in the summer and how so many times that week she hadn't thought she could make it to the finish line but she was able to because of the power of the cheers and support of those around her, those seen and unseen, including her daughter.

I don't really have words for what this experience means to me.
Even now as I type this, my eyes are wet.
My heart is overflowing.

I am quite certain had I not agreed to speak at that girls camp or had I not been willing to share my story this summer with those girls...well, I am quite certain this mother would have still gotten what she needed. That sweet young woman would have still been used to prepare her mom for what was ahead.

But, I wouldn't have been able to have even the slightest chance to be a part of it.

God will absolutely use us when we ask to be used.
He will use our lives for good.
He will allow us to be part of His master plan.
He loves us.

And though we may never know how He is using us
and while we may never see the results of the good He is helping us do,
our lives are more interconnected than we could ever know.

And in that interconnection are dozens of "rest of the story" moments...
moments that every now and then, we get to know about.

Christus Consolator

The name of the painting is "Christus Consolator". It was the last alter piece I stood in front of today when I finally made my way to the Carl Bloch exhibit at BYU.

Had I been the only one in the museum, I do not doubt I would have sunk to my knees. I felt the power of the invitation. I saw myself in the painting.
And I saw some who have claim on my heart right now.

There is the widow to the left.
She is alone and clothed in sadness.

There is the blind man behind her.
He cannot see the truth of who he really is.

There is the man in chains to the right.
He is beholden to those things that bind him.

There is the skeptic on Christ's right.
Finger to his mouth, do you see him?
He hears the invitation of the Savior, but he's not sure.

And then there is the girl on the left looking directly at you.
She hears.
She knows.
And she invites you to hear and know too.

I've spent the last few months completely consumed with my own little self.
My own needs.
My own issues.

But, I spent some time last night at the temple and found my thoughts turn to a few people in my life. I found myself praying for them. And this morning I learned why.

There are those all around us who are struggling.
Some of them do not see the dangers of the paths they are getting ready to go down.
Some are sad.
Some are blind.
Some are chained.
Some are unsure.

All need the Savior.
Even the girl.

So, be the girl.
Hear.
Know.
Help.

We need to be an echo of the Savior's invitation:
Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me;
for I am meek and lowly in heart:
and ye shall find rest on your souls.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.
(Matthew 11:28-30)

(and if you haven't made your way to the exhibit, you must.)


(image found here)

Crumbs at the Sacrament Table

I was assigned to help clean the church this morning.
I am always grateful for assignments to serve (I shouldn't need an assignment, but...)

When I arrived, I chose the job of vacuuming and straightening the Chapel.
And I went through everything on the list of things to do.

The last item was to vacuum the little room where the young men at church prepare the Sacrament. I had never been in that room.

It was a little 4'x4' space.
And I noticed that it had probably been a while since the shelf and the counter had been cleaned. So I did that too.
It was nice to feel like I could do something to help the preparation of this sacred ordinance.

Before I left the chapel, I saw the beautiful white cloth on the Sacrament table. I walked over to see if it needed to be straightened and I noticed it was quite covered with crumbs. Remnants of the bread that the young men break each Sunday so that those in attendance can remember the sacrifice of the Savior.

I gathered the cloth up carefully and took it to the side door to shake it out. Then, I walkd back to the table and placed the cloth carefully back in its place.

It was clean.
And ready for tomorrow.

You know...
I've thought about those crumbs a lot today.
Those crumbs that were left behind.

Tomorrow morning I will go to Church.
And during the Sacrament hymn, I will reflect on the week.
I will partake of the emblems of the Sacrament.
The bread.
The water.

And during the service, I will prepare to start another week.
And as I do, I want to know that I have left something behind.
Some action
Some thought
Some feeling
Some one little thing that I didn't do so well this past week.
Some one little thing that stood between me and the Spirit.
I think I already know what one of the one little things should be.

That's one of the purposes of the Sacrament, isn't it?
We commit to always remember Him.
To live more like Him.
And in doing that, perhaps we can commit to leave something behind.

Our one little crumb at the Sacrament Table.

Sweetest experience

"The sweetest experience in mortality
is to know that our Heavenly Father
has worked through us."
-Thomas S. Monson, To The Rescue

I woke up at about 3am this morning.
I heard a whisper as clear as anything I've ever heard.
It woke me from a dead sleep.
But it didn't frighten me.
I had heard my name.

My BlackBerry light was blinking and I clicked to look at my message. There was an email.
From Jordan.

Remember her?

I haven't heard from her since that night when I made her that promise. I had tried to email her but it bounced back. But, I've thought of her often as I experienced other camps this summer. She was how the Lord helped me see that He had girls He wanted to reach and I spent all summer looking for other "Jordans" in the crowd.

This girl really holds a special place in my heart.
She was the means for a summer full of treasured moments.

As I read the email, I had this overwhelming sweetness rush over me.
She told me what her Father in Heaven did for her at that camp after we met and since then. He used others to reach her too.
He confirmed the promise I felt compelled to make to her.
And she recognized it.
I was blown away...and grateful.

I fell back to sleep and spent the next couple of hours in a very sacred space inside my dreams.

Here is what I know:
God knows us by name.
And He works through us to help each other.
It's the way He set up this life of ours.
I don't know all the reasons He set it up that way.
But, I'm so grateful He did.
I have been blessed by countless people He has worked through for me.

NONE OF US can get through this life without another.
NONE. OF. US.

A couple of years ago, when I realized my life was not unfolding quite as I had hoped, I pleaded with the Lord one very difficult night.
I remember saying:
"If this is where I am for now, at least use me. Please use me."
It was a sincere plea from a very emptied heart.

I promise girls all the time that if they will ask God to use them, He will.
I promise that because I know it's true.
He doesn't use the best or the smartest.
He uses the willing.
If you don't believe me, ask Him for yourself.
But just be ready. Because He will use you.
And there are things He will do through YOU.

This morning I heard the quote above by President Monson.
And after the events so very early this morning, all I could say was, "Amen."
It IS the sweetest experience.

This heart will never be empty again.

How does the story end?

"You do not know the end of your story."

That's what I told an impressive group of girls today.
We were in the midst of one of the prettiest spots on the planet.
God was there.

The theme, "There Once Was a Girl", was planned to help them understand that they are writing their own story and the need to understand their potential to create the story they were meant to live.

I had them close their eyes and I asked them questions:
Raise your hand if you think you'll get married in the temple.
Raise your hand if you think you'll graduate from college.
Rasie your hand if you think you'll serve a mission.
Raise your hand if you think you'll be a mom.
Raise your hand if you think you'll return to God when you leave this life.

We talked about how easy it is to make assumptions about our lives. We see where we are in the middle of a story and we assume we know how it's going to all turn out.

But, we aren't the only writers of our story.
We are partnered with God.
And the reality is that HE is the only who actually knows how the story will end.

*****

One of my favorite stories in the Bible is the story of Joseph, sometimes referred to as “Joseph of Egypt”.
You know the story.
Joseph was the favorite son of his dad. He was so favored that his dad gave him a fancy schmancy coat and everything. Joseph was given a couple of dreams that let him know there was something special about him. He didn’t think twice about sharing his dreams with his brothers. They got tired of his fancy coat and his “I think I might be a ruler one day” dreams and sold him to a company of Ishmaelites going to Egypt (and then lied to their dad and said Joseph was dead). Joseph ends up as a servant in Potiphar’s house. Potiphar’s wife tries to get Joseph into trouble. Joseph is smart enough to run. Potiphar’s wife accuses Joseph of trying to get HER into trouble. Joseph ends up in jail. And then seems to get forgotten.

Now, that’s not the end of the story.
But, the thing I love about this story, is that although Joseph knew it wasn't the end of the story, he still didn't know exactly how the story would play out.

He could have thought the story was over when his brother’s threw him in the pit and sold him to the Ishmaelites.
He could have thought the story was over when he ended up as a servant to one of the Pharaoh’s chief captains.
He certainly could have assumed the story was over when he ended up in jail.
But, he didn’t.

He seems to have never stopped believing.
Sure he had dark times, but “the Lord was with [him]” (Gen. 39:2, 21) and we can actually read that in the story.
But, Joseph didn’t have the benefit of reading the story.
He was LIVING the story.
And He chose to trust God.
And look what happened.

So, wherever you are right now, whether you feel like your world has been turned upside down (like Joseph in the pit) or you feel like things couldn’t be better, what you must understand is that your story is still being written.

Every day.

*****

Funny.

As I was talking to the girls, I realized I do the same things they do.
I've spent my whole life making assumptions about how things will turn out.
I look to the end of the story when I'm still at the beginning.

But, I'm not the only writer here.
I am partnered with God.
And the reality is that HE is the only who actually knows how the story will end.

And I trust His ability to write a really great story.
I do.

Just about the one

I spent today in Malad, Idaho.
(Just saying "Malad" makes me grin. I also want to say "Ma-lady" after it. Get it?)
A city that my BlackBerry GPS says doesn't exist.
But, my heart sure knows it does.

I was there to meet a couple of times with some young women and then finish the day with an evening fireside for the girls and their moms.

Well, that's why I THOUGHT I was there.

In all of my travels, I have the chance to enjoy Sunday worship in lots of different places. And every now and then, I can't help but feel that the Lord has orchestrated a moment...in a city I don't belong to...just for me (like in Kansas City, remember?).

Today was another one of those days.

There was a missionary returning to report on his mission experience so the chapel was full and into the overflow. As the Sacrament water was being passed, I noticed two of the priests at the Sacrament table having a quiet discussion about whether or not there would be enough of the little cups of water for each member of the congregation. I could tell one was worried and one was sure what they had prepared would be sufficient.

As the deacons returned to the table with their trays, one by one they each took their turn to pick up a small cup of water from the last tray with cups.

But there weren't enough.
They were short.
By one.
One little deacon was standing at the table in line with all the others.
And there was nothing for him.

The two priests walked back into the room where the Sacrament is prepared.
They filled one little cup.
They brought it back to the Sacrament table.
One priest knelt and recited the prayer.
And then the little deacon partook of the water.

In that moment, it was as if the entire congregation was assembled just so one little 12 yr old boy could partake of the sacrament and renew his covenants.

And it was as if I heard in my mind:
"Sometimes it's just about the one."

That experience stayed with me all afternoon.
Through the rest of the meeting.
Through dinner with some of the most remarkable girls I've ever met.
Through a drive back to the church past the beautiful lush green hills of Malad.

And as I walked into the chapel and sat on the stand before the fireside began, those words came back into my mind:
"Sometimes it's just about the one."

I had this overwhelming sense that while I thought I knew why I had come to Malad, I did not.
But, the Lord did.
And it was for one girl.
I told them about the experience with the sacrament.
And then I shared my impression.
I invited everyone else to just sit there and listen if they'd like.
Only the one girl would know who she was.

I wasn't sure of her identity until the very end.
Our eyes locked in a moment of testifing that God knew her.
And then it happened.
He was testifying to me too.

I knew He had heard my prayer on my drive up to Malad.
I knew He was aware of what was in my heart this morning.
And I knew He knew I knew.

Sometimes it really is just about the one.
And sometimes that one is me.

Where are you standing?

I’ve been to a couple of temples where on a wall is the beautiful painting by David Lindsley entitled “Behold, Your Little Ones”.

The picture depicts Christ’s visit to the Americas after His resurrection, specifically this painting shows him with the little children. I had the chance to meet the artist and confirm the major details of a story I thought I knew about the painting.

One summer many years ago, Mr. Lindsley had arranged to use a group of primary children for a photo shoot. The children were instructed to come wearing bathrobes over their clothes. A man, representing the Savior, stood in a white robe with his arms outstretched. The children were placed around him and then the photo shoot began. Mr. Lindsley took pictures from all angles with the intention of taking those pictures back to his studio to create the final painting.

There was a young girl, perhaps 10 years of age, participating in the photo shoot. Because of her height, she had been placed in the back, right next to the man portraying Jesus. As she stood there, she couldn’t help but notice that Jesus’ hand (well, the man standing in the place of Jesus for the painting) was outstretched right in front of her face. She knew, like the other children, that the painting was going to be used in conjunction with a church magazine and she wanted to make sure she was a part of it. If she stayed where she was, maybe no one would see her in the final piece of art.

Somehow she convinced the girl standing next to her (who was NOT in front of the hand of the man portraying Jesus) to trade places. Now the 10 year old was no longer next to Jesus but she wasn’t behind his hand either. She could easily be seen by anyone who looked at the picture.

Did you catch that?

She had the chance to be the girl standing right beside the Savior.
But, she changed places because she was worried no one would see her in the picture.

Well, the great irony to this story is that when the final painting came out, she was barely distinguishable in the picture at all. She went from being next to Jesus to essentially being cut from the painting altogether.

I have stood in the temple many times and looked at that picture.
And, knowing the story, I can’t help but wonder how that girl must feel whenever she sees the painting.
She had given up a chance to be right next to the Savior because she wanted to be seen by the world instead.

But, I don’t have to wonder how she feels every time she sees the picture.

I know how she feels.

Because that 10 year old little girl was me.

Whenever I walk into one of the temples that has that painting, I stop and reflect.
And ask myself, "Where are you standing?"

Because what my 10 year old self didn’t understand then, my 30-something self has realized over a lifetime of experiences now, and that is this: When you have the chance to “stand next to” the Savior, whether that is being in the Temple or partaking of His Holy sacrament or being enveloped by His love as you kneel to pray, you take it.

When you have the chance to stand up for what is right, to testify of truth, to courageously walk away from worldly pursuits and choose Him, you take it.

And in those moments,
nothing is more important than being right there,
as close as you can be,
to Him.

November 10, 1985

During a radio interview, the host presented an interesting question to me. “I would love for you to talk about your faith and how old you were when you knew it was your own.”

I don’t remember ever being asked that question before. I actually don’t know if I’ve ever even thought about the answer. But, an answer came to me as quickly and naturally as anything ever has. I can’t help but think my little spirit had just been waiting for someone to present the opportunity to share what was inside me.

I said something like this:
“My first real vivid memory of knowing that there was something out there and someone out there was in 1985. We drove from our house in Pewee Valley, Kentucky to the Stake Center in Louisville and we watched a special satellite broadcast for the Young Women of the Church. It was the first time that the Young Womens Theme and the values were introduced by Sister Ardeth Kapp. And I remember sitting in that Stake Center and when I heard that theme for the first time, something connected with me.

And I can take almost every gospel truth I’ve acquired in my life or fought to figure out and I can take every single one back to that theme. That was a pivotal time in my life when I was trying to figure out who I was. And that Young Women’s Theme is a foundation for me.

I believe God sacrificed His only begotten Son because I know He loves me and so it makes sense to me He would do that.

I believe that God spoke to a prophet named Joseph Smith when he was fourteen because I know God loves me and so it makes sense He would do that.

That is really where I got my faith.
It’s why I made the decision to read the Book of Mormon and the Bible.
It’s why I go to church on Sunday.
It’s why I partake of the Sacrament.

Because I truly believe, when all is said and done and everything else is stripped away, it is as simple as: ‘I am a daughter of my Heavenly Father who loves me.’ And so, I have to say that is how my faith has become my own—because of that Young Women’s theme from oh so long ago.”

When I was done, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for that little theme that obviously has had such a profound impact on my little life. I realized how it has motivated me to do better and be better. It has changed me forever.

It’s been [almost] twenty-five years since that theme was first introduced. I was a 13 year old girl with a whole life ahead of me (please don’t do the math!). And every Sunday, I would stand with the other young women in my ward and we would recite those words. Every Sunday. The same words.

Have you ever thought about what you’re saying when you stand and repeat the Young Women’s Theme? Have you thought about the amazing truths you are saying out loud? Have you wondered why you say it every Sunday?


[TO BE CONTINUED...November 2010.]

A Sabbath just for me

It was just before ten when I asked the concierge at the hotel if by any chance he knew where the closest LDS chapel was. I had forgotten the directions at home and the battery in my laptop was dead.

I knew the meeting started at 10:00.
And I just wanted to take the Lord's sacrament.
I've not missed it very many times in the last few years.
I'm a bit obsessed, I guess.
I know my week goes better when I renew my covenants.
And I didn't want to miss my chance.

He was gone for much too long.

When he came back he said, "I don't think you want to go to this building. It's not in a good part of town."

"If there's a Mormon chapel there, I'll be fine."

It was a rough part of town. I was certain I wasn't going to find an LDS chapel there. But I did.
And as soon as I saw it, I knew I was fine.

I walked in just as they finished passing the sacrament.
I had missed it.

But, it was the primary program day...the Sunday when the children provide the messages and music for the service.
And this congregation had children of every color and nationality.
I sat there and cried.
It was beautiful.

A cute girl up on the stand was struggling to stay focused and participate. Her tired mom (and probably primary teacher) finally took her out. And as they left the chapel, the cute little girl just kept screaming, "I don't want to miss my part! I don't want to miss my part!"

A few minutes later, a very tired mom re-entered with her little girl in tears.

And she had missed her part.

The mom sat there with her daughter. Now they were both crying.
An inspired chorister, right before the program ended, motioned for the little girl to come to the podium.

The chorister knew what that little girl wanted. She knew why the little girl had come back into the chapel. And in the moment, the primary program was just for her.

But the little girl was crying.
And she couldn't get the words our of her mouth.

Still in tears, the little girl went running back to her seat and ran into the arms of her mother. But, her wise (but tired and crying) mom mouthed, "You did it! You did your part!"

The little girl's face lit up. She gave her mom a "high five."
Her mom told her she had done her part and that was enough for her.

I loved what I witnessed.

At the end of the meeting, the man sitting next to me (who knew I had come to partake of the sacrament but had missed it) said, "Just a minute". He went and talked to the bishop and the next thing I knew, I was going into a little room off the chapel with a couple of the Priesthood and a 17 year old boy named Deondre.

Deondre blessed the bread.
Just for me.
I partook and renewed my covenants.
Then Deondre blessed the water.
Just for me.
I partook and renewed my covenants.

That good man knew what I wanted. He knew why I had come.
And he helped me...and I was crying.
In the moment, the Sacrament was literally just for me.

Not only was it a good part of town; it was exactly where I needed to be yesterday.
I loved my inner-city Kansas City Sabbath.
It seemed it was just for me.