This My Hymn

peak winter

For the beauty of the earth, especially for the way You built it, crafting elements around a core so liquid hot and dense that every so often over billions of years it’s burst and rocks have jutted up and layered and combined to form the peaks I love to watch the sun rise over. For rainfall. For trees and rocks and textures. For the River Cam and the Dnepr, for Lake Helena and the Black Sea. For the fields and forests where You and I have carried out some of our most private, most important conversations, like how in the world was I supposed to survive high school when ninth grade and depression left me and my GPA shattered, or like how incomprehensibly happy I felt and feel that You healed my emotions and got me into BYU in spite of a poor GPA and a late application submission. For columbine and yellow roses, and for the crocuses that wake me from winter into spring. For the miracle of aspen trees and their whisper. For breezes and for frost. For the lovely death of trees in autumn and the resurrection that follows it, which You only just recently taught me to see as a fiery symbol of the resilience of the human spirit, which is really, then, a fiery symbol of the link that keeps us tied to You, the Sire of Spirits, and to Your Son, Who made resurrection possible in a world swallowed up in death.

Lord of all, to Thee I raise this, my hymn of grateful praise.

For the beauty of each hour, of the day—when it’s light out, and thus I can see, and thus I feel like things make sense and I can move forward with confidence—and of the night—when, in darkness, I cling to the stars You made to remind us that no darkness need ever be total, and thus I can still move forward, even if I have to work on the confidence part a bit. For the beauty of each hour You and I have spent in heart-to-heart contact, and oh those hours are many indeed. For the beauty of the hours that come just as the sun rises or sets, when the heavens are set on holy fire. For the beauty of the hours that come after a good, hearty cry, and everything is still, and You’re there.

Lord of all, to Thee I raise this, my hymn of grateful praise.

For the joy of human love. For the fact that You’ve poured over me so much more of that joy and love than anyone could ever deserve, least of all me. For each of my five brothers, who tease me and whom I tease, and for each of my five sisters, who counsel me and whom I counsel. For parents who do everything for me. For all the times they forgave me after I brought them heartbreak or concern. For their insistence that I go to DC and to Cambridge, because they knew I needed to stretch in ways that couldn’t happen in comfort. For the utter lack of fitting things to say about my dear parents, as I sit here bemoaning the hollowness of every sentence I try to structure in their honor, because how could words repay twenty-five years of life? For the opportunity to live my love for them, even if writing it is impossible. For the sisterhood of Apartment 210. For a best friend who lets me spam her phone with cross-country texts, because Virginia is too plumb far away from Utah. For mission presidents and their wise wives, who kept me upright under the weight of Ukraine, and who keep me upright under the weight of post-mission decisions. For the musical mathematician you led into my life at exactly the right moment, which seemed like exactly the wrong moment at first, as You are well aware after all those nights when I worried about the timing of it all, and begged You for enlightenment or knowledge or something more concrete than just the beautiful mounting calm You used to still my worries and direct my heart. For the something terribly concrete that came just hours before he proposed. For his heart, which somehow hasn’t grown bitter in spite of all sorts of trials and disappointments, including the ones I’ve put him through. For his tenacity and patience. For his hands, which You taught him to use to craft beautiful things, like arrangements and algorithms. For the joy of this very human love, which is all the while a very heavenly matter as well. For the faith You gave us as we tiptoed and chose and guessed our way into romance, even though there were and are things we need to keep in mind and prepare for. For Your wisdom in all of these relationships, in making provisions for the fact that humans hurt each other sometimes, and nothing is ever as clear to us as it probably ought to be, from Your eternal perspective, and so no one really knows what on earth is going on in families and friendships and courtships, but we sure do feel closer to You as we stumble our way through them.

Lord of all, to Thee I raise this, my hymn of grateful praise.

 

 

*****

Based on text from “For the Beauty of the Earth,” by Folliott S. Pierpont (1835-1917). See LDS Hymns #92.

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And Again, I Say

Wasatch Mountains September 2015

Wasatch Mountains
September 2015

God never said “be happy all the time.”

What He said was “rejoice evermore” (1 Thessalonians 5:16, Doctrine and Covenants 98:1).

And there’s a difference that, yes, perhaps I only noticed because Dad drilled a love of language into me, or because Mom launches Latin roots discussions around the dinner table, or because I’m rather a pessimist at heart and thus have devoted long hours to hashing about through the seeming paradox presented by commandments to take up a cross and follow the Man of Sorrows and Acquainted with Grief, while personally never allowing bereavement and trials to nick at a positive outlook on life.

Until recently I had always taken the twice-repeated quintosyllabic commandment to mean that I should be unflinchingly happy regardless of whatever trials I might endure. “Rejoice evermore,” to me, seemed to equal: “don’t let anything get you down,” or “stay happy always,” or “if you have even an inkling of understanding of God’s plan, then this death or that rejection or this injustice or that major breakdown of everything that felt solid won’t bug you in the least.”

And that seemed a crummy way to plough through life in a world bent on smashing things into shards that are too small and devastated to piece back together. I hurt. It’s a fact of my life. And I happen to know that all human beings hurt when the black blood of disappointment courses into their hearts, which it does on a regular basis. And what kind of a friend or sister or roommate would I be if I didn’t allow others the privilege to recognize the real human trueness of pain?

So “rejoice evermore” never really made sense—not the way I was trying to fathom it.

But one afternoon as I reviewed one of the two spots in Canon where the directive occurs, my internal linguist whispered, Well goodness, I’ve never thought of that prefix before.

Re.

As in, repeat, or renew, or resume, or recur.

Or rejoice.

Re is shorthand for do again.

And at that thought, the dust of paradox settled to show a truth that my mind, heart, and soul could embrace.

Perhaps the purpose of the Gospel is the promise in the prefix—namely, the notion that when hurt and hate and despair crack our dreams and extinguish our hope, if we work toward and trust in and hold hands with God, then the joy that is not quite perpetual will at least be regainable. That is, we can joy again. Rejoice.

I’m biased. I’m writing this from a highpoint on the joy-disappointment-grief-healing-joy cycle, and things that I cursed in weeks and months and years past now seem to fit a pattern that resonates with reason and leaves room for me to sit back and thank the Father for leading life to happinesses I’d never have found if He’d let me do the steering all along like I asked Him on a number of fitful nights. Frankly, I don’t know how I got here. I certainly don’t know how I made it here heart intact. What about all those times I swore I’d numb myself, shun all feelings, turn off sensors to keep from withering under the weight of it all? I honestly thought I had done that, sometimes, because how else could I have lived through the pain?

Yet somehow I still feel. What’s more shocking still, I even feel good, though not always, and happy, though not irrationally, and joyful, though still bearing in mind that some wounds haven’t healed yet and are out of my power to fix because other people can make their own choices no matter how ardently I may oppose what they choose.

So all right, it’s delicate. But it’s real. This happiness I sense now is real. I’ve experienced it before in life, differently, thenly. And now it’s come back, an unexpected guest visiting on errand to remind me that God knows that life shouldn’t always be good, or else we’d never learn, but it shouldn’t be endless sorrowing either. It’s a slow dance rounding corners of trial, passing moments of joy, led sometimes by hurt and then sometimes by bliss, all while ebbing and flowing to the kind of songs souls can hear if they listen real close.

Point is, God never asked us to be happy always, but to hang onto His words and be happy again. Endure, He said. Don’t stop. Don’t give up. Don’t quit walking just because the patch that you’re stuck in right now is exactly what it oughtn’t to be and you hurt.

Always go on in spite of doubts, fears, and discouragement.

Always trust that some things might get better sometime.

Always clutch for the punctured palm of that Man of Sorrows and Acquainted with Grief.

And He’ll always help us to be happy again.

To rejoice, and rejoice, and rejoice as often as it takes, evermore, cycling on through eternal agains that God grounded in the promise that His plan makes againing possible to those who believe in His Son and endure to the end.

“Rejoice in the Lord alway,” quoth the scriptures—then to emphasize what that means, the writer penned next: “and again I say, Rejoice” (Philippians 4:4).

And then do it again and again.