Right now, I'm reading a great book by Gabriel García Márquez called Love in the Time of Cholera. The book appealed to me because of its classical, dense, overly romantic title and its supporting role in the movie Serendipity.
So far it has not disappointed. The book is classical, dense and overly romantic. I read for what feels like hours and then I look back and find that I've only progressed a half-dozen pages. The floral descriptions of passion and love come off as alternately syrupy and bitter. It would be the stuff of soap-opera legend if it weren't so authentic.
There are a few parts in the book wherein each principal character so perfectly exemplifies what love feels like. In one, Dr. Juvenal Urbino's passion for Fermina Daza becomes manifest in his near-obsession with placing himself within ear- or eyeshot of her and behaving conspicuously in an attempt to sway her attractions his way.
In another, Fermina, out of anger and resentment for her feelings of love towards him, accepts Dr. Urbino's proposal of marriage curtly, caught off guard by her jealousy when he flirts with another woman.
In another, Florentino Ariza, forlorn over the loss of his true love Fermina, is stripped of his virginity by a fellow steam-ship traveller. In that moment, caught in the passion of not-entirely-contested rape by this woman, he comes to believe that he can fill the anguish of heartbreak with sex, that love can be replicated and attained through lust.
As I read, I identified with each character's actions. I related with Dr. Urbino's cautious arrangement of his schedule to coincide with Fermina's. I laughed knowingly at Fermina's angry realization that she loved the man she despised. I hung my head shamefully as I recalled times I tried to recover from loneliness or heartbreak by using others.
I'm eager to see how it ends. I want to know what advice Mr. Márquez has for me in my search for love. I woke up today feeling bitterly lonely and feeling like time marched on past me while my feet, steeped in ignorant cement, stayed firmly in place. I watched friends marry and have children, other friends come out of the closet and become voices of hope for the power of the Gospel to transform, and still others leave the church and find what seems to be genuine happiness is same-sex relationships. And then there's me, in the same rut I've been in for 7 years, caught in the conflict between my brain and my tail.
So instead of going to work or school, I called in sick, bought a Diet Coke, drove into the countryside and read Juvenal, Fermina and Florentino's tales of love and woe and moving on and it filled me with a small shred of hope combined with a small shred of depression. Just like love.
Showing posts with label Literature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Literature. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
"What Makes Us Happy?"
Three years ago, Joshua Wolf Shenk wrote an article for The Atlantic about one of the longest and most comprehensive longitudinal studies ever carried out. The study, which started in 1939, asked for lifelong commitments from 237 Harvard physically and mentally healthy sophomore males. The men would undergo a comprehensive initial physical and mental evaluation and would answer questions about their home lives and upbringing. Then, every few years, the men would fill out questionnaires about their lives at that point in an attempt to evaluate how financial, relationship and familial success correlated with happiness. The conclusions were fascinating and I highly recommend reading the above-linked article all the way through. It's long and daunting, but very interesting.
As you might expect, many men who'd achieved giddy professional success were sad and unfulfilled. Many of their relationships fell apart. Some were alcoholics. A few committed suicide or died early from preventable causes. There's pretty obvious data about what not to do if you want to be happy and live a long life: don't smoke and don't drink. But what should you do?
As you might expect, many men who'd achieved giddy professional success were sad and unfulfilled. Many of their relationships fell apart. Some were alcoholics. A few committed suicide or died early from preventable causes. There's pretty obvious data about what not to do if you want to be happy and live a long life: don't smoke and don't drink. But what should you do?
Monday, June 25, 2012
Robert Frost
My favorite poet of all time is Robert Frost. Since I have a captive audience, I'm going to post a few of his poems with my 2nd-grade quality analyses of them. Plus, I'm going to whore myself out for comments. Keep reading...
The Pasture
I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(and wait to watch the water clear I may):
I shant be gone long. --You come too.
I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I shant be gone long. --You come too.
The Pasture is possibly my favorite poem in the English language. It's touching and beautiful in its simplicity; a farmer inviting his wife or child or friend to accompany him on a short errand, one that could easily be accomplished alone, but one that's made richer with good company. I look forward to the day when that spouse or child or good friend can drive with me to the gas station or drug store, just for the sake of company.
Choose Something Like a Star
O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud --
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says "I burn."
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,
Not stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame to far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.
I love this poem too. But I kinda wanna try something with it. It's a complicated poem; the first time I read it I was in a class, so I got to sit idly by while others analyzed it for me, which gave me an unfair advantage. I only got to hear one explanation of what it means, the "right" explanation, and I'd like to see what other messages people get out of it. Drop me an e-mail or leave a comment and tell me what you think about this, my other favorite poem.
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler long I stood
and looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less travelled by
And that has made all the difference.
Self-explanatory, but with one twist that I'd never thought of until I talked about this poem with a friend awhile ago. He said that the part in the last stanza, "I shall be telling this with a sigh..." shows that even when he reaches the end of the path, the speaker will still be unsure about whether or not his choice was the right one. I wonder if that's how it will be for all of us: Do we really know we made all the right choices in life because they led us to here? Or are we just seeking the equilibrium that comes with "knowing" that everything happened for a reason? I kind of think that I'll always have that what-if feeling giving me pause to contemplate if I really did make all the right choices.
Good ol' poetry. I like you, I think I'll keep you around for awhile.
Monday, November 28, 2011
The Parable of the Spoons
One night, a man had a dream. He found himself in a room, completely sealed off from the outside world. There were no doors or windows and no way to escape. After several hours of walking around the room, a door appeared that he hadn't noticed before; on it was an inscription that read, "For the Damned." The man hesitated, but seeing no other escape, he walked through the door.
On the other side of the door was a bright, well-lit and ornately decorated room, centered around a long, lavishly appointed banquet table. On the table were hearty meats, savory vegetables, exquisite delicacies, and mouthwatering desserts, elaborately prepared and presented for the table guests. Several people were seated around the table, but none were eating. As the man looked closer, he saw that each of the people were tied to their chairs, with one hand tied behind the seat back. The other hand was free, but it held a spoon too long to be of any use to its owner. The man saw the people load their spoons and turn them back towards themselves, but there was no way for them to hold the spoon in such a way as to feed themselves. He watched in horror as the people, pale and emaciated, starved to death in agony.
He ran from the banquet hall back into the room in which he originally found himself. On the other side of the room, he noticed another door, upon which he read, "For the Saved." He walked through the door and thought for a moment he'd walked through the first door again. The room looked identical, with the same embellishments, decorations, and elaborately spread banquet table. The guests at the table were again tied to their chairs, with one free hand holding a spoon that was far too long for them to eat from. However, the guests were happy and well-fed, each one laughing and talking jocularly with the others. As the man looked closer he noticed a critical difference between the rooms: while the inhabitants of the first had been unable to feed themselves with their spoons, the guests of the second realized that they instead could feed their neighbors with their spoons and be fed in kind. In serving each other, the saved found life and happiness.
The man realized that Heaven and Hell offered the same circumstances; the difference laid in the way that people treated each other.
Taken from Hindu and Judaic allegories
On the other side of the door was a bright, well-lit and ornately decorated room, centered around a long, lavishly appointed banquet table. On the table were hearty meats, savory vegetables, exquisite delicacies, and mouthwatering desserts, elaborately prepared and presented for the table guests. Several people were seated around the table, but none were eating. As the man looked closer, he saw that each of the people were tied to their chairs, with one hand tied behind the seat back. The other hand was free, but it held a spoon too long to be of any use to its owner. The man saw the people load their spoons and turn them back towards themselves, but there was no way for them to hold the spoon in such a way as to feed themselves. He watched in horror as the people, pale and emaciated, starved to death in agony.
He ran from the banquet hall back into the room in which he originally found himself. On the other side of the room, he noticed another door, upon which he read, "For the Saved." He walked through the door and thought for a moment he'd walked through the first door again. The room looked identical, with the same embellishments, decorations, and elaborately spread banquet table. The guests at the table were again tied to their chairs, with one free hand holding a spoon that was far too long for them to eat from. However, the guests were happy and well-fed, each one laughing and talking jocularly with the others. As the man looked closer he noticed a critical difference between the rooms: while the inhabitants of the first had been unable to feed themselves with their spoons, the guests of the second realized that they instead could feed their neighbors with their spoons and be fed in kind. In serving each other, the saved found life and happiness.
The man realized that Heaven and Hell offered the same circumstances; the difference laid in the way that people treated each other.
Taken from Hindu and Judaic allegories
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Aurora
This weekend was filled with still more traveling. My sister shipped her very beautiful, very new, and very loaded Ford Flex to our house, as she had been living with us for a bit while her husband got their home settled in Minnesota, but the Flex wasn't shipped in time so she had to leave it behind and let me drive it up. 14 hours across some of the most beautiful landscape in America in a car that parallel parks on its own, plays music via voice command, and has enough power and control to keep up with a Corvette in the Black Hills? Fine, twist my arm. Also, don't ask me how I know that it can keep up with a 'Vette and I won't have to tell you any lies.
The drive went exceptionally well. The cherry-red Flex ate up the freeway, my Bluetooth-linked iPod spilling everything from Ke$ha to Linkin Park to ABBA to Snow Patrol. The drive through the Wyoming prairie, the Black Hills of South Dakota, and the badlands of North Dakota was breathtaking, relaxing, and exhilarating at times. All was well.
As I got deeper into North Dakota, I noticed some clouds overhead. They were thick and grey, hanging low over the horizon, so I assumed I'd pass under them pretty rapidly. The moon was still shining behind me, casting an impressive glow over the flat landscape. I drove and drove and drove, but the clouds still loomed in the sky. I thought I saw them moving about, so I pulled over to observe them without the light pollution of my headlights. I needed some fresh air anyway.
I looked ahead to the clouds and saw them stretching, thick and ribbon-like from the east to the west. I studied them a little closer and was surprised to see them dancing, up and down, subdivided into little columns that moved and oscillated, independent of the night sky surrounding them. My heart jumped into my throat as I realized that I wasn't looking at clouds, I was watching the Northern Lights!
Chills instantly ran up and down my back and out to my periphery. Seeing an aurora has been on my bucket list from day one of my life, it seemed, and now I had the chance. I had looked forward to them till that moment, seeing pictures of those green and blue and occasionally red lights in textbooks and on Google, and so looked forward to seeing them that I would surely be disappointed when I actually got the chance. But even though the lights I saw were partially obscured by the full moon and the aurora above me was mostly grey and devoid of color, I was thrilled by my discovery. I felt like the first person on earth ever to see them and nothing else could compare to their brilliance.
Jeroen Van Bergejik writes in his book, My Mercedes isNot For Sale, that, while on vacation, very few people have authentic experiences, that is, experiences that are unspoiled and free from the influence of something external. For example, eating at a "traditional" Hawaiian luau and drinking Coca-Cola with your roast pig is not an authentic experience. In fact, it's so difficult to find a truly authentic experience nowadays because our world is so interconnected, for better and for worse.
However, in spite of the perfectly groomed highway in front of me and the $50,000 station wagon behind me, seeing those auroras floating in the night felt like an authentic experience. I felt like the first man must have felt, looking up into the night sky, humbled, chilled to the bone, maybe a little scared, but completely enthralled and appreciative of the beauty of this world.
After awhile, I got back in the car and resumed my drive. I started thinking about how easily I almost mistook the Aurora Borealis for clouds and started thinking about the other auroras in my life that I occasionally write off as rainclouds. This life is full of Northern Lights, but sometimes it requires pulling over and studying them to really understand how amazing they are.
The drive went exceptionally well. The cherry-red Flex ate up the freeway, my Bluetooth-linked iPod spilling everything from Ke$ha to Linkin Park to ABBA to Snow Patrol. The drive through the Wyoming prairie, the Black Hills of South Dakota, and the badlands of North Dakota was breathtaking, relaxing, and exhilarating at times. All was well.
As I got deeper into North Dakota, I noticed some clouds overhead. They were thick and grey, hanging low over the horizon, so I assumed I'd pass under them pretty rapidly. The moon was still shining behind me, casting an impressive glow over the flat landscape. I drove and drove and drove, but the clouds still loomed in the sky. I thought I saw them moving about, so I pulled over to observe them without the light pollution of my headlights. I needed some fresh air anyway.
I looked ahead to the clouds and saw them stretching, thick and ribbon-like from the east to the west. I studied them a little closer and was surprised to see them dancing, up and down, subdivided into little columns that moved and oscillated, independent of the night sky surrounding them. My heart jumped into my throat as I realized that I wasn't looking at clouds, I was watching the Northern Lights!
Chills instantly ran up and down my back and out to my periphery. Seeing an aurora has been on my bucket list from day one of my life, it seemed, and now I had the chance. I had looked forward to them till that moment, seeing pictures of those green and blue and occasionally red lights in textbooks and on Google, and so looked forward to seeing them that I would surely be disappointed when I actually got the chance. But even though the lights I saw were partially obscured by the full moon and the aurora above me was mostly grey and devoid of color, I was thrilled by my discovery. I felt like the first person on earth ever to see them and nothing else could compare to their brilliance.
Jeroen Van Bergejik writes in his book, My Mercedes is
However, in spite of the perfectly groomed highway in front of me and the $50,000 station wagon behind me, seeing those auroras floating in the night felt like an authentic experience. I felt like the first man must have felt, looking up into the night sky, humbled, chilled to the bone, maybe a little scared, but completely enthralled and appreciative of the beauty of this world.
After awhile, I got back in the car and resumed my drive. I started thinking about how easily I almost mistook the Aurora Borealis for clouds and started thinking about the other auroras in my life that I occasionally write off as rainclouds. This life is full of Northern Lights, but sometimes it requires pulling over and studying them to really understand how amazing they are.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
The Art of Racing in the Rain
Why I loved The Art of Racing in the Rain, by Garth Stein
The narrator--a dog--is named Enzo, after Enzo Ferrari. Enzo's owner, Denny, drives a BMW 3.0 CSi, one of the greatest and most attractive vehicles ever to come from BMW and indeed the world. Denny works at a German automobile repair shop and in his spare time races touring cars. Enzo's favorite movie is Le Mans, a movie about the 24-hour endurance race of the same name, starring Steve McQueen, coincidentally also Enzo's favorite actor.
So, yeah, with all that flotsam and jetsam, the book is off to a pretty good start. Dog, racing, BMW. Winning combo.
But it's so much more than that. Allow me to explain a little with one of the last paragraphs. It's no spoiler, but it does explain the point of the novel, so stop here if you really want to be surprised.
The narrator--a dog--is named Enzo, after Enzo Ferrari. Enzo's owner, Denny, drives a BMW 3.0 CSi, one of the greatest and most attractive vehicles ever to come from BMW and indeed the world. Denny works at a German automobile repair shop and in his spare time races touring cars. Enzo's favorite movie is Le Mans, a movie about the 24-hour endurance race of the same name, starring Steve McQueen, coincidentally also Enzo's favorite actor.
So, yeah, with all that flotsam and jetsam, the book is off to a pretty good start. Dog, racing, BMW. Winning combo.
But it's so much more than that. Allow me to explain a little with one of the last paragraphs. It's no spoiler, but it does explain the point of the novel, so stop here if you really want to be surprised.
I know this much about racing in the rain. I know it is about balance. It is about anticipation and patience. I know all of the driving skills that are necessary for one to be successful in the rain. But racing in the rain is also about the mind! It is about owning one's body. About believing that one's car is merely an extension of one's body. About believing that the track is an extension of the car, and the rain is an extension of the track, and the sky is an extension of the rain. It is about believing that you are not you; you are everything. And everything is you. (314)
I'm not usually into all this existential crap. I actually kind of hate it in a big way for its vagueness. But there's absolutely no denying the truth of that last paragraph. Anyone who has ever driven, let alone raced, in rain knows it's true. Balance, patience, and presence of mind are required for safe and successful driving. Why then should it be any different for anything else?
So much that I want to tell. But I also don't want to spoil the book. Just know that it is so much more than cars and racing and dogs. It's a great story and I loved reading it. Now, I'm a little depressed that I have to find another book to read.
Depressed
Yesterday, at family home evening in my singles ward, me and a few of my friends ended up sitting around, talking story about whatever. We laughed about funny events in others' lives, chatted about movies and TV, gossiped about sports, celebrities, high school friends, etc.
We got on the subject of The Hunger Games, which I just finished a few days ago. I loved it. It was so unbelievably depressing near the end, but it was a total page turner. I cried through the last 50 pages and was legitimately depressed for a few hours after closing the final book, one, because I'm always depressed after finishing a book, and two, because the book was really really depressing, if still very good. Even so, I still find myself getting a little misty when I think about how it ended, and it's been almost a week.
I mentioned all of this to my friends, which made them laugh. I love dramatic art, but only when my life is good. I love my Grey's Anatomy, Hunger Games, and Life is Beautiful, but I can't stand it if there's a significant personal drama going on in my life. I can only consume something depressing (music notwithstanding) if there's something good going on in my life. If I'm dramatic and my media is dramatic, I can't handle it.
Anyway, my new book is kinda like that. I'm reading The Art of Racing in the Rain, by Garth Stein. It's about Enzo, a very human dog who, on the eve of his death, looks back at his life with his family and ponders his contributions to their lives. It's charming, sweet, funny, and insightful, but since it's about a dog dying, you can bet your boots that it's a little depressing. Still, I'm enjoying it and I find myself marveling at Enzo's intelligence.
Last night, I woke up at 2 am and couldn't fall back to sleep, which is rare for me, so I started back in on Enzo's story for awhile. After a few hours, I decided to try sleeping again, but felt myself consumed with a feeling I haven't had in a few months. It started deep in the pit of my stomach, then made its way north to my throat, then settled deeper into my chest. I was startled when a small, strangled sob made its way out of my mouth. I wondered where this sob came from, but as I wondered, the sobs came more frequently and more vocally.
Emotions like these are normal for me, but I haven't had that weird, vacuous feeling in several weeks, so it surprised me when it came. I wondered, was I just kidding myself with all the happiness that I thought I was feeling? Have I really been depressed this whole time, but have I just been trying to subdue it with false satisfaction? Or have I really been happy, and it was just my preoccupation with all this depressing literature that was making me sad?
Eventually, I came to a few conclusions. I decided that, yes, I was happy then, but for some reason, I just needed to be sad now. I needed to wallow a little bit in self-pity and wonder why life was so hard sometimes. I had to pine a little bit for Hawaii, for the trampoline in my backyard where me and my friend would sit and cry under the stars talking about her problems and my problems, but then move on and laugh and wrestle and snuggle, happy for the friendship and the love we had for each other. I had to sit in bed last night and wish that I had someone, not a wife or a boyfriend or a lover, but some good friend who knew me and could let me wrap myself around them while they told me that everything was okay and that I was loved.
Well, this went on for a few minutes before I settled down a bit and relaxed. A smile broke my lips. It was an involuntary smile that told me that I am a happy person. These last weeks/months of joy I've been feeling were a result of something in my mindset changing, not a result of forced repression. And I woke up this morning, a little frazzled from my fractured night of sleep, but no less grateful to be alive and well and no less happy that things are going okay for me.
There's a little raincloud chasing after me today, making me sometimes take pause and wish that things could be different and easier, but it's broken by the summer sun of a life that I know is worth living, in spite of its shortcomings and sorrows.
We got on the subject of The Hunger Games, which I just finished a few days ago. I loved it. It was so unbelievably depressing near the end, but it was a total page turner. I cried through the last 50 pages and was legitimately depressed for a few hours after closing the final book, one, because I'm always depressed after finishing a book, and two, because the book was really really depressing, if still very good. Even so, I still find myself getting a little misty when I think about how it ended, and it's been almost a week.
I mentioned all of this to my friends, which made them laugh. I love dramatic art, but only when my life is good. I love my Grey's Anatomy, Hunger Games, and Life is Beautiful, but I can't stand it if there's a significant personal drama going on in my life. I can only consume something depressing (music notwithstanding) if there's something good going on in my life. If I'm dramatic and my media is dramatic, I can't handle it.
Anyway, my new book is kinda like that. I'm reading The Art of Racing in the Rain, by Garth Stein. It's about Enzo, a very human dog who, on the eve of his death, looks back at his life with his family and ponders his contributions to their lives. It's charming, sweet, funny, and insightful, but since it's about a dog dying, you can bet your boots that it's a little depressing. Still, I'm enjoying it and I find myself marveling at Enzo's intelligence.
Last night, I woke up at 2 am and couldn't fall back to sleep, which is rare for me, so I started back in on Enzo's story for awhile. After a few hours, I decided to try sleeping again, but felt myself consumed with a feeling I haven't had in a few months. It started deep in the pit of my stomach, then made its way north to my throat, then settled deeper into my chest. I was startled when a small, strangled sob made its way out of my mouth. I wondered where this sob came from, but as I wondered, the sobs came more frequently and more vocally.
Emotions like these are normal for me, but I haven't had that weird, vacuous feeling in several weeks, so it surprised me when it came. I wondered, was I just kidding myself with all the happiness that I thought I was feeling? Have I really been depressed this whole time, but have I just been trying to subdue it with false satisfaction? Or have I really been happy, and it was just my preoccupation with all this depressing literature that was making me sad?
Eventually, I came to a few conclusions. I decided that, yes, I was happy then, but for some reason, I just needed to be sad now. I needed to wallow a little bit in self-pity and wonder why life was so hard sometimes. I had to pine a little bit for Hawaii, for the trampoline in my backyard where me and my friend would sit and cry under the stars talking about her problems and my problems, but then move on and laugh and wrestle and snuggle, happy for the friendship and the love we had for each other. I had to sit in bed last night and wish that I had someone, not a wife or a boyfriend or a lover, but some good friend who knew me and could let me wrap myself around them while they told me that everything was okay and that I was loved.
Well, this went on for a few minutes before I settled down a bit and relaxed. A smile broke my lips. It was an involuntary smile that told me that I am a happy person. These last weeks/months of joy I've been feeling were a result of something in my mindset changing, not a result of forced repression. And I woke up this morning, a little frazzled from my fractured night of sleep, but no less grateful to be alive and well and no less happy that things are going okay for me.
There's a little raincloud chasing after me today, making me sometimes take pause and wish that things could be different and easier, but it's broken by the summer sun of a life that I know is worth living, in spite of its shortcomings and sorrows.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Purgatorio
I had the rare pleasure of reading Dante's Commedia last semester, but of course, as per my usual study habits, I left all of the reading to the last three or four days of class. In my frenzied devouring of the material, not much actually sunk through to long-term storage and I'm fairly certain all of it left my head a few minutes after the final exam. Still, one point stayed with me.
After the fictional Dante descends through the various pits of Inferno and then rises into Purgatorio, he encounters a wall of fire separating the land of penance from Paradise. After seeing his guide Virgil go through the flame and emerge to the other side unscathed, one would think that Dante Alighieri, brave and intrepid thinker that he was, would readily walk through to begin his road to glory. But he hesitates.
Peter, one of Jesus' apostles, had a probably-similar experience. He saw Jesus walking on water, and yet he hesitated a little bit and lost sight of Jesus as he began to sink into the tempest.
When I lived in Georgia, selling security systems, our team had an awful summer. One of the reasons for this was that I was the most experienced sales rep in the office, which is only because I arrived in Georgia a day before any of the other rookie salesmen. With me as a leader, the team fell apart. There was a galaxy of natural talent in that office, men and women who were trustable, charming, handsome, attractive, honest, and knowledgeable. But for the first month, I was the most experienced. I tried my best to train the team as well as I could, but I just didn't have enough hands-on knowledge to be a successful teacher. By the time more experienced sales reps arrived, we had already formed almost-unconquerable bad habits and doomed ourselves to a mediocre summer when we could have been great, all because the best pacesetter we had was me. There wasn't anyone to show us that it was possible to post big numbers, so we all assumed that small numbers were all we could do.
What, then, is Dante's excuse for his hesitation? What is Peter's? These men were the acolytes of two amazing pacesetters. They received inspiration and instruction from the greatest man and one of the greatest thinkers this world has ever seen, and yet, they failed in those moments.
Now, it's not honest to call these two men true failures. Peter did walk on water and Dante eventually crossed through the fire to gain Paradise (I love the account of his crossing, saying that the fire burned his skin but his nerves were unsinged. I'd like to feel that painless burning he talks about someday.)
And now, to be humble, how many times do we cast off our pacesetters? I'm not positive, but I think that even if I had someone to really teach me how to sell, I still might have done pretty crappy, because I had (and have) a pretty lame work ethic. So what's that say for things that are really hard? Like, say, living with same-gender attraction while still trying to serve a mission, find a companion, and please my Heavenly Father? I've got a few pacesetters in that respect, including Jesus Himself, who suffered my specific sorrows and trials and still endured. And yet, how often do I cast His example off, preferring instead to see the tempest raging around me or imagining the actually-harmless flames licking and burning my body? If I'm honest, probably more often than I'd like to admit.
(To make myself feel less guilty, I'm going to lump you all in with me too.)
Why do we do it? Why do we damn ourselves to a life of fear when we have a perfect example right in front of us? Perhaps it's a niggling worry that God won't really save us when we sink, so why try to walk on water? If that's our excuse, then we need to strengthen our testimonies in God's love, because "perfect love casteth out all fear." My good friend once told me that, if we really honestly look back at the hard times in our life, we can't honestly say that God wasn't there to get us through. If there was a limiting reagent, it was us, not God. That means that God's probably batting a thousand, so why would He break His perfect record now? The logical answer is that He won't. He will still do all He can to get us through the tempests and beckon us through the fire into eternal rest.
Let's not hesitate to step off the boat next time, eh?
After the fictional Dante descends through the various pits of Inferno and then rises into Purgatorio, he encounters a wall of fire separating the land of penance from Paradise. After seeing his guide Virgil go through the flame and emerge to the other side unscathed, one would think that Dante Alighieri, brave and intrepid thinker that he was, would readily walk through to begin his road to glory. But he hesitates.
Peter, one of Jesus' apostles, had a probably-similar experience. He saw Jesus walking on water, and yet he hesitated a little bit and lost sight of Jesus as he began to sink into the tempest.
When I lived in Georgia, selling security systems, our team had an awful summer. One of the reasons for this was that I was the most experienced sales rep in the office, which is only because I arrived in Georgia a day before any of the other rookie salesmen. With me as a leader, the team fell apart. There was a galaxy of natural talent in that office, men and women who were trustable, charming, handsome, attractive, honest, and knowledgeable. But for the first month, I was the most experienced. I tried my best to train the team as well as I could, but I just didn't have enough hands-on knowledge to be a successful teacher. By the time more experienced sales reps arrived, we had already formed almost-unconquerable bad habits and doomed ourselves to a mediocre summer when we could have been great, all because the best pacesetter we had was me. There wasn't anyone to show us that it was possible to post big numbers, so we all assumed that small numbers were all we could do.
What, then, is Dante's excuse for his hesitation? What is Peter's? These men were the acolytes of two amazing pacesetters. They received inspiration and instruction from the greatest man and one of the greatest thinkers this world has ever seen, and yet, they failed in those moments.
Now, it's not honest to call these two men true failures. Peter did walk on water and Dante eventually crossed through the fire to gain Paradise (I love the account of his crossing, saying that the fire burned his skin but his nerves were unsinged. I'd like to feel that painless burning he talks about someday.)
And now, to be humble, how many times do we cast off our pacesetters? I'm not positive, but I think that even if I had someone to really teach me how to sell, I still might have done pretty crappy, because I had (and have) a pretty lame work ethic. So what's that say for things that are really hard? Like, say, living with same-gender attraction while still trying to serve a mission, find a companion, and please my Heavenly Father? I've got a few pacesetters in that respect, including Jesus Himself, who suffered my specific sorrows and trials and still endured. And yet, how often do I cast His example off, preferring instead to see the tempest raging around me or imagining the actually-harmless flames licking and burning my body? If I'm honest, probably more often than I'd like to admit.
(To make myself feel less guilty, I'm going to lump you all in with me too.)
Why do we do it? Why do we damn ourselves to a life of fear when we have a perfect example right in front of us? Perhaps it's a niggling worry that God won't really save us when we sink, so why try to walk on water? If that's our excuse, then we need to strengthen our testimonies in God's love, because "perfect love casteth out all fear." My good friend once told me that, if we really honestly look back at the hard times in our life, we can't honestly say that God wasn't there to get us through. If there was a limiting reagent, it was us, not God. That means that God's probably batting a thousand, so why would He break His perfect record now? The logical answer is that He won't. He will still do all He can to get us through the tempests and beckon us through the fire into eternal rest.
Let's not hesitate to step off the boat next time, eh?
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