A $20 Christmas Miracle

We woke up that Wednesday morning two weeks ago to a power outage, a frigid December morning where only the water would work. Like my employment situation, there seemed to only be cold silence. A silence that almost has its own sound, the sound of failure and rejection, the sound of something broken.

The news report on my phone said it was a major area wide power failure. A combination of issues that culminated into darkness, into a situation where no matter how much effort was put forth the lights went out. No amount of work could instantly resolve the issue. These words rang familiar. Almost 5 months have passed and the sharp sting, the words that cause grown men to crumble to their knees, echoed in my shame filled mind. You did your best but we have to turn out the lights on you anyway. Your efforts are not enough… failure.

The temporary laborer work I have been doing was canceled for the day so that powerless morning I thrust myself into the biting cold and shoveled walks most of the morning. As if to numb my rigid mind I pushed and scraped. Peeling away the hardened snow and ice as I tried to peel away the continued rejection.

What most people do not realize and understand is that when a person is laid off or fired from a job the rejection has only begun. It is as if when the pink slip is handed out the trigger on the gun at the starting line has fired its shot. It is a race from one job application to another. It is a race from one interview to another. A colossal effort of applications, phone interviews, in-person interviews, follow-up emails, and second, third and sometimes even fourth interviews. The longer processes take months, the shorter ones weeks. Dozens of applications, a handful of interviews, an infinite amount of hope and all with the same explanation. The one that HR departments across the world must have conspiratorially adopted.

“You are well qualified and would be a good fit but we found someone with more experience.”

One would think this would be helpful but it is just the opposite. When rejection and hope are given in the same sentence, it is rejection that will erode away the most hardened bedrock of hope.

Even granite cliffs become sand against the waves of time.

No help is given as HR departments, to stay free from lawsuit, cannot actually tell you why you were not hired. The system is now designed to keep those failing to find work, stuck in the pit.

Imagine telling a student who failed a test that they were close but just didn’t do well enough. When the child starts trying to figure out specifics or get some feedback on what they missed you only say that someone else did better than them and that they just couldn’t quite do as well. Failure, the child will continue in failure until by sheer luck they figure out what they did wrong or they finally get things right. What a cold hard world it would be if our educational system taught our young like this.

A Trip to the Store

Seeking the warmth of an open store with electricity, we went across town to get a few small things for the children for Christmas. A few items to put in their stockings. We thought we could afford about $20. Walking into a store, at a location we rarely go to, I saw a few former co-workers checking out and I guided my wife in the opposite direction. Not today, a day when I felt I was all but beaten did I want to face the humiliating question that would produce a despondent answer.

“Have you found work?”

“No…”

 Especially not in front of my spouse could I face this. Quickly we walked on, deeper into the store.

$20 Bill

I saw a $20 bill in the aisle of the grocery section. No one was around. I stared at it for a bit before my wife came around the corner. Picking up the bill I thought how this would pay for what we were going to purchase with much needed funds that could be used elsewhere. I thought for a moment that maybe this was Heavenly Father trying to help us. Then I lowered my head in shame as I realized it was not our money. I thought,
“What if this is some poor single mother’s money to buy formula for her hungry infant?”
I hung my head even further as I thought how we needed it too. That our clay cliff of reserves was almost gone and how long before it would be that we would be in the same situation as the very imaginary person I was thinking about?

Then I slumped even further and decided, with a sliver of hope, that I would turn the money into customer service and if they deemed we could keep it then that would settle the matter.  There was no conflict in my wife’s eyes, unlike mine, as she concurred that we needed to turn it in.
"It’s not ours."
I tried to cover the dichotomy of my greed and self-loathing.

  

I stood in the customer service line for a few minutes to hand in the money. When it was my turn I quietly slid the folded bill across the counter and said I had found it. The clerk asked where and that she would put it in their “book”. I don’t even recall a thank you or a smile for doing the seemingly right thing.

I walked away from the counter, my head hanging even lower.

“We needed that money Heavenly Father!”

I thought as I slowly walked back to find my wife checking out.

That $20 seemed so much at that moment, a moment that was riding on the fumes of weeks and months of rejection. Finally a break as it seemed, even one this small, still seemed out of my grasp. This time it was my choice and it hurt. Back into the cold of that subzero winter day we walked to the car and in the back of my mind I thought that hopefully things would balance out and the $20 would somehow return to us.

The Loaves and Fishes

Something miraculous happened this past week, something just as great and no less significant as the Lord feeding the 5,000 with what came from the 5 loaves of bread and 2 fishes. We learn from John in the New Testament that the Savior multiplied the bread and fish to feed the 5,000 who had followed him. That is the miracle, which is the focus of the story. What is often passed over is the “lad”. The boy who brought the food to the Master. Imagine his thoughts, imagine his countenance. “All my food, and yet I will give it up. I will go hungry.” I wonder if he too hung his head and questioned his actions before speaking up and offering his sacrifice.

I felt a bit like that young lad when I turned in the $20 bill. I would like to think that he too probably thought, “Well, there won’t be enough to go around but I will offer it and then hopefully they will just give it back.” I wonder what he thought when the bread and fish were actually taken from him. I have witnessed nothing less than what he witnessed, a miracle.

Unlike the lad however, I have been shown this miraculous miracle multiple times. The Lord multiplied the $20 more than 10 fold and he did it multiple times this past week so even I could not miss the lesson…

Why I don’t want to hear ‘The Christmas Shoes’ song

This last Tuesday I was driving to a Boy Scout meeting when over the radio I heard ‘The Christmas Shoes’ song that to me has become redundant. (You know the one about the boy who asks the guy to buy his dying mother some shoes?) I quickly turned it off thinking it was annoying after the 100^th time and also that things like that really don’t happen. I went to the meeting and had replaced my Scout leader hat with one the “Grinch” would be proud of.

As I was on my way home I got a call from my wife letting me know my mom and step-dad were on their way over. They were to perform the 1^st miracle.

I have been doing laborer work and it has been a blessing because I was not forced to go on unemployment, but it has been a curse in a sense. Having to work outside in one of the coldest Idaho Decembers I can ever remember has been a struggle. Especially without insulated boots. No amount of wool socks will keep your feet warm in uninsulated steel toe boots. Trust me, I have tried. I resorted to my cumbersome 16 year old worn out snow packs that added a great deal of bulk but only performed marginally better.

With feet that were still cold from the day’s work outside, I walked into the house after the Scout meeting to sit down for a quick visit with my mom and step-dad. It was late so they didn't stay long. They handed me an early birthday card with enough money to buy some well insulated work boots. Sitting there, reading the kind words and seeing the money, I couldn't help but notice that I had been moving my toes to try to get them warmed up. I now have my very own “Christmas Shoes.”

I caught myself and thanked my angel mother. I still won’t be listening to “The Christmas Shoes” song when I am driving. Now, however, it is because I will not be able to see the road because the tears that will surely come.

Miracles

Another miracle, later in the week, and this time it was anonymous. The $20 bill I gave to the clerk had multiplied as a friend brought an envelope from one anonymous person who had been given it by another anonymous person who wanted us to have it. This was not the end.

Today was a birthday I will never forget. Running around this busy Saturday we noticed something sticking in the front screen door as we left the house. We decided to get it later. We finally did and to our amazement, it was an envelope with literally a multiple amount of $20 bills. Stunned, somewhat embarrassed and extremely grateful I just shook my head at my wife. Once again it was anonymous.

A visit from another loving neighbor tonight with a birthday chocolate bar and an anonymous envelope they had been asked to give to us. It contained more money.

Still in wonder, a few minutes after our neighbor left, the doorbell rang and the porch was empty, save for another envelope.

Dec. 22nd
A week after publishing this post and I am in even greater awe. I assumed that this blog would serve as a mass thank you card and that the giving would stop. The opposite happened. Just as the snow descended this week, so did the anonymous angels. I firmly believe that Heavenly Father does not send us random angels to help us in times of need. He sends to us those we know and love. On both this side of the veil and the other, he sends his righteous servants who care about us. Often we are unaware of who he has sent.

These miraculous envelopes all showed the miracle of the multiplying of the $20 bill. So this Sabbath morning I placed some of the envelopes sent to us on the tree so my children could see the gifts we were given this sacred season. I did not place the money there. The true gifts sent to us over the past several weeks were really the priceless gifts of encouragement, hope and love.

I see loaves of bread, I see fishes. I see the Savior’s hand, multiplying and blessing my family, my home.

I am but a weak lad, having held up what little there was and seeing the Savior take it and multiply it many times over. Once again, I hang my head, lower than ever before. This time however, it is in gratitude for those who have blessed my family this Christmas season and most of all for my Savior, for his touch, for the miracles he still performs.

 -The Feeble Soul

© 2013

Finding Lost Miracles

Four months into the struggle to find a job to support my family and this happened...

Today I prayed for a miracle.  The miracle never came. I pleaded at the start of this new day, a day that pushed out an old one of broken dreams, that the failures of yesterday would be overcome by the success of today. 

The miracle never came and when the sun set, so did my faith. 

Laying on the stone bed of sorrow and resting my head on my pillow of frozen tears, I gaze up into the winters night. Like so many nights before I ponder my choices. All of them seemingly guided and well designed. Yet they seemed to fail. Failures falling all around like a blanket of frost, covering the ground of my soul in ice born sadness. Brittle and hardened, I lay still. In the darkness of night, even sleep fails me. 

Stiff and calloused, another day dawns. In it, in this new day, a scene plays forth. A man of many years, worn by time and unaware of life around him, stumbles in the foggy mist of mind bending age. His wife and his daughter take him by the hands. Sacred hands, hands that once played with tender children and grandchildren. Hands that taught and hands that often were clasped in mighty prayer to God. Hands, now weak and unaware, are now held to guide and steady him. A shell of who he once was, stumbling as the women in his life struggle to help him to rest in his bed. With tears in their eyes they plead with him to convey an understanding that will not come. 

Witnessing this solemn moment, a moment when realization descends on those you love that mortality is at its end, is a scene that breaks through the veil of a new understanding. A miracle was found this day and it was in these women. 

Miracles do not exist in the temporal needs of our earthen struggles.  For what is a miracle? Employment or money? Those things that buy more things that potentially lead us into lives that lead us away from what matters? Today I have enough, enough for my family and me, that is all I need. Work will come and go but miracles are found in the lives around me, not in my temporal desires. True miracles exist in the lives of those who serve. Those who love with pure desire become the miracle. In that miracle of giving, that sacrifice of all, breathes forth new life. A life that will never die but will live in serenity through eternity. 

As one life comes to a close, mine is renewed with faith in the service I see. The miracles of all who serve and give their all to those they love. In my life, I see this in these women I love. A wife, willing to give up her golden years to nurse an ailing husband. A daughter, willing to move on, away from a life she knew to help her fading father.

Today I prayed for a miracle that never came. It never came so that I could see. So that I could see the true miracle, the miracle that is the love in the hearts of those who serve.  

 -The Feeble Soul

© 2013

5 Minute Fit on the Floor

A 4 year old, lost in time, sitting on the floor. Afraid and unaware of what was going on. A shackling forced upon the tenderly young body. Tears of misunderstanding rolled down his lightly freckled face as he stared into the carpet, forever changed.

It all began with a limp and an inquisitive farmer of a father. A quick measurement of the uneven legs confirmed a problem, a battle of body within. Legg-Perthes disease, a hip disorder, a disease cured with leg braces.

Returning home from the doctor’s office in this body binding and seemingly limiting device produced a fit that only a 4 year old is skilled enough to enact. The tantrum was not long in its duration but after five minutes of crying on the floor the flood of fury and dejection ended. Getting up off the floor, life began. This was not so much a display of courage on the boy’s part but more of a reflection of the determination and deep love on the part of the two parents. Hearts aching with sorrow and doubt, they looked on. They encouraged the boy with gentleness but treated him like the others. Bicycles were ridden, soccer was played, ice skates used and a seemingly hobbled boy pretended not to notice the braces. Braces with a 14 inch bar between the knees to keep the legs at an angle to allow the hip to repair. There was never any physical pain, just a squeak when the metal needed greased that served as a relentless reminder.

When there was any walking, standing or anything else involving mobility, the braces had to be worn. Treated as a lifeline, the lesson from the doctor was that healing would only come if the braces were always used. Save for one time, a quick jog across a private bedroom when he was alone, did the young boy always wear the braces when upright and moving.

A soccer game played and a father looked on. The ball passed right between the boy’s spread out legs. He ran on, without any concern but for winning the game. All the while his father wept with anguish. His mother also looked on from time to time, questioning her actions and the unknown possibility of being the cause of the disease herself. 

Two years of restriction and success was around the corner until a doctor returned with discouragement and troubling x-rays. The disease had spread to the other hip. Another 3 years passed, 5 total before liberation finally occurred. The healing completed at the age of 9, after most of the boy’s childhood had faded away.

               

In the Idaho countryside one does not sit around, especially with brothers, sisters, horses, dogs, cats, and thousands of acres for a back yard. Living life was not up for debate or discussion, it simply happened. No choice was made, except on that one day, the first day, after the five minute fit on the floor.

Life hits us so hard sometimes that we feel as if we have been shackled and slammed to the floor. It hurts, we are confused, and often we cry. Our hearts are frozen, cracking, aching, on the verge of shattering. Shattering into a billion pieces, only to melt into a dark puddle of pain.

Rising up out of the ashes of our aching soul, crying out with anguish, we must choose the life that has been given freely. We must choose to embrace our eternal exaltation. We must live our life, hand in hand with our Savior. Looking into our past, into the trials we have faced, we must look further. We must look back far enough to glimpse the Master. Once we can see past our pain and suffering and into His life of long ago, we then are freed. Liberated and released from whatever it is we face.

In the present we often cry out for understanding and for help with our new limitations or ones that have lingered for what seems eons. Once thought conquered we often find they have only shifted to another part of us. Pushing us on to endure when we feel we can no longer. After the tears are shed and the sounds of sorrow exhausted we have one of two choices. Once we have finished our ‘five minute fit on the floor’ we have a decision to make. Do we continue in debilitating despondency? Do we throw our hands up in confusion and lay down to dissolve into despair, never to rise again? The only other choice we have then is to live. To get up, to choose to live with Him.

 -The Feeble Soul

© 2013

Wrong Roads - Questioning God When Starting Over

I often wonder about the “wrong roads” in my life. Especially during times of struggle when I feel I am starting all over again. As I now turn around and make the long walk back to the fork in the road, the place I stood almost a decade ago, I slouch in shame. I look down the long traveled path I spent so long on and see it fade into the distance, a mirage as it were, disappearing into my past. With worn and tired feet I turn my dust crusted eyes to gaze down other paths not yet traveled.

When guidance was sought, the same decision of which path to go to be made, I thought I received divine guidance. I thought I knew the way. 

An incredible amount of energy is required to begin the path down a new trail of life. To do so when you realize the previous path came to an end can be insurmountable. I want my life to be one grand path. One that climbs ever upward, like climbing a mountain.  

Most climb worthy mountains begin steep and difficult. Until you reach the ridge line it is usually a muscle burning experience that leaves you shaking with exertion. Once you reach the main ridge of a peak the wind usually picks up and cools, the will to continue the climb renewed, exhilarating hope is imbued as the goal is within sight. New sights are seen and the way, though still steep, seems easier. We look back and see the progress. Every step of strength brings us closer to the goal. To be thrust back down the mountain once you have reached this point, to do this frequently as the years roll by, this can leave one questioning God. To walk back down the mountain of struggle and to begin anew makes one want to sit in their sorrow, never to gaze upward again. 

If all paths I take lead back to where I started then what is the point?
I question my ability to be guided. I question my ability to be led by the Spirit of God. 

I have had small glimpses of possible answers to the agony but none as profound as this:

<<<<Click on this link or the video below, if it shows up, before you continue reading>>>>

So here I stand, back where I began so many times before. With strengthened purpose I hope to begin anew. On the way back down a literal mountain this past summer, almost at the end of an amazing backpacking trip, I gazed upward and saw this tree. 

I had to take the picture. This is not a black and white. The lighting and approaching storm give off the monochrome coloring. What made this tree become what it is now? Why so many branches sprawled outward, seemingly going nowhere? The tree, now dead, provides some silent answers. A straight lodge pole trunk with no branches would make for a useless tree. With its only purpose being that of lumber, no use while it is alive.

It is in the branches that nests are made, new life springing forth, shelter is taken from approaching storms, and seeds are sprung. It is from the branches that the sun is absorbed and the roots are strengthened. My favorite sound as a child was that of the wind rustling through the mighty mountain pine trees. The needles provided a music that warmed my soul. The branches, the forks in the tree’s growth, bring strength, life, and joy. It is impossible for us to grow straight without branching off. The forks in our lives are where we truly grow and as we grow outward in seemingly pointless spurts we will finally one day look below. We will see that with the outward growth into what we believe to be dead ends, we find that we have also grown upwards.

So to journey anew I begin, a path untraveled to tread.  I believe I have finally understood that the inspiration is not so much which fork in the path to go, but the inspiration is that I GO, onward. Onward and upward.

 -The Feeble Soul

© 2014

The Lesson of the Worms

As I was heading to the back door there was my 3 year old. Standing there with a grin that could brush the sky, she stood with hands outstretched. In them I saw the earthen toned wriggling worms. Baffled I asked how she obtained them. Something unintelligible was pronounced and off she went to continue her quest to collect her friends, her “wormies.”

I stood at the window, perplexed. We had not had rain recently and usually when we found accessible worms it was on the sidewalk after a heavy soaking. Peering through the blinds I watched my blond headed beauty standing silently, without any movement. Quickly a robin swooped down and landed on the grass, pecking at the dirt that lay below. My daughter stared, hardly breathing.

The robin then proceeded to pull a worm out of the earth and right at the moment when success was achieved, a shriek blasted out of my 3 year old wonder. Running at the bird, in tandem with her yell, caused the bird to drop the worm. The child then quickly went to the worm, picked it up, and retreated to the edge of the lawn where she once again became a solitary statue. The robin returned and again the same exact event unfolded just as it had before. The same result. Again and again this process continued for several minutes until this daughter of mine came to ask for a cup. Hands full and exultant joy present, she beamed with triumph and I marveled in wonder.

 

If I desire worms, I go buy them or dig them up with a shovel. This child did neither but with patience and faith she obtained her goal. It has always baffled me to see a child’s mind work. This one did not have tools or money, but the result was just as effective as if she had. If a small child can achieve success when the odds are against her, what can I achieve?

Often I find that I am not like my toddler, but like the robin. At the moment of success, the moment when the life sustaining goal has been achieved, something happens. Fear approaches and I drop the prize. Like the beaten bird, I too squawk in fright. Let me feed my family, let me sustain myself! I have worked so hard, so long, and finally when the conditions were right I had everything within my grasp. With doubt and anxiety I fly away in the face of fear. Like the robin, I return to repeat the cycle.

Beaten, the bird finally flies away without realizing that all it needs to do is not let go. That is the only action that is preventing success. The robin did everything correctly, even taking flight at the right moment. Why does it let go then? Why does it suffer hunger, shame and having to return home to a crying nest awaiting their next meal? Many homes in this land have food on the table, but what of spiritual or emotional nourishment? How many broken families are crying out, yearning for spiritual guidance? How do I allow fear or distractions to impede my ability to help nourish and feed my family’s non-physical needs?

Our Savior, Jesus Christ, taught Peter to never let go as he began to walk on water that dark and treacherous night on the Sea of Galilee. Afraid, the disciples sat in their vessel of fear as is evidence when they saw Jesus coming towards them they assumed it was a ghost, their worst nightmare. Their fear was total. They finally realized it was the Savior as he called to them and cut through the storm they were battling. Sparking hope in Peter, he attempted to meet the Savior. The first step, success, and confidence gained. Fear approached once more in the form of the wind and waves. Peter let go.

A lesson is learned as Peter lets go. In seemingly suffocating storms in our lives, when the torrential terrors begin to wash over us, even when we lose all hope, we are not alone. We may drop the prize we have strived for, we may start to slip beneath the surface, but we will always be caught by our Lord and Master. When we begin to sink into the agonizing abyss, we only need reach upwards and He will catch us. Like Peter, he returns us to the safety and shelter we need. Like with Peter and the rest of the disciples, when we place our faith in our Savior He not only comes to us but quiets the storms in our lives. We may lose faith in ourselves. We may gain fear. We can lose our faith in everything around us or become paralyzed, sinking to our death in the tragedy of life. Like Job, we may even lose all that we have, left with only two options. Persist, or give up.

Stripped down to the nakedness of our spiritual selves we have only to make one choice. Placing our faith in Jesus Christ, even when we are on the verge of drowning in fear, pain, loss, or whatever else this life brings, He lifts us out of the devastation we are in.

There I stand, next to the Savior. Cold and wet, dripping in my doubts, disappointment, and despondency, but not alone. With my head hanging low the Savior places his scarred hand on my shoulder and as I gaze upwards I see the rising of the sun. Light peaks above the towering mountain of stone and dirt. Glistening off of the water’s surface that once threatened my existence I see the darkness fade. Gazing into my Savior’s eyes I see that I have been made whole. I see newness of life welling up in the corning of his beaming eyes. Slowly the hope rolls down his eternal face in one everlasting droplet of life.

So there I stand, next to Him. Who am I? A robin of fear or a child of faith…

 -The Feeble Soul

© 2013

Excerpt from "The 5 Keys"

(An excerpt from, The 5 Keys, a short 8,000 word piece I am thinking about publishing on this blog. )

The 5 Keys  -page 16

A dark moonless night, a valley of heartache, a garden of salvation.

A garden of agony.

A garden of sorrow.

A garden of sacrifice.

Only one, the Perfect One, could do it.

Entering a garden in darkness, He brought us into the light.

The light of eternal life.

His saving essence dripped upon the ground.

A crown of mockery thrust upon him.

Nails of sacrifice pierced his perfect skin.

A blade of man thrust in his side.

Did I cry when it happened?

Do I cry now?

Do I feel his pain when I fall short?

How many drops fell with life giving anguish because of me?

How many tears do I shed because of Him?

Some days I stand lost, wondering if I am worth it.

So many to save, do I really matter?

Worlds without end I am told, do I even exist?

I sit in my murky pool of troubles and wonder.

Then the light breaks forth on the dawn of understanding.

It was all for me.

Yes it was for them too, but still... it was all for me.

A burst of truth splashes upon my soul.

Enlightenment streams down my face in single eternal droplets of hope.

He would have suffered, even just for me.

-The Feeble Soul

© 2013

Something Spoken

Something Spoken

Softly calms the breeze of day, a day without end. Wondering throughout this life with awe unmeasured, a path is lingering near. Beckoning with an inviting song, she sings. To go when called, to follow or stay? With will seeping one drifts; like the mist from a waterfall floating away, towards the lustrous path of heavenly beauty.

Underneath the shade at last an infinite trail is seen.

 A sign is posted among the shrubs of green, “you may enter but never return, for steps in time cannot be retraced.”

To embark upon a journey untold, or remain in the meadow? A decision of such grandeur and to be made by a mere mortal.

A whisper in the trees, as if alive speak a strange voice unknown. Jovial laughter, “come play, the sun is bright the day perfect and right!”

A battle within. Who will conquer, who will win?

A choice of unknown proportions made. Like following an ominous star without knowing where.

Feet upon the path they tread, lightly- almost carefully at first. A gaze behind reveals only the foliage of a new life. No meadow- no security, just the impending darkness ahead.

The narrow forested path of strange familiarity continues onward, never changing, a bend here- a bend there- one body yet one portion never to know another.

Unfit, ashamed and afraid, as if being trapped against a boulder inching upon you, one feels alone.

No happy play once foretold, no light from the life giving sun, sadness- emptiness.

To return to the meadow, not so- the unstoppable ride has begun.

Sharp stones digging, etching, prying, deeper into the naked softened flesh. No more a path of splendor. Toil and sweat, a life of hardship.

A body lying upon the stone nearby, so limp and pale is he. A tear of pain trickles down his face of gray, sweat protrudes under the thin hair of pale white.

The journey so difficult, alone to carry another?

Impossible!

An unspeakable light within overpowers and compassion is king. Lifting the broken and forlorn body the trail of toil is once more continued, now by two.

By carrying the man of gray one would think a task much too hard to do, but not so. The path not changing and yet the soul lifted, over the boulders and sharp stones, to heights of joy and splendor. Such love, to sacrifice; when one is lifted and burdens eased, hearts are filled and thus travels shortly come to a glorious end.

A somewhat familiar face waits underneath a crowning ceiling of hollyhock. Standing sentinel on either side is the grandfather oak, the awakening aspen, and the eternal spruce of blue.

At last…the end has come…I am home.

-The Feeble Soul

© 2013

A Funeral Message for Doug

Doug was a childhood friend of mine. When junior high hit we drifted our separate ways and I didn't always treat Doug like I should have. There are things I regret and on the eve of his funeral, 12 years ago, I penned this and read it the next day at his funeral. Doug took his life when he was at his lowest. At the same time I was at the highest point in my life, just 2 weeks away from my wedding. It put things into perspective and it was another reminder that my Feebleness has always been a part of me, even in my youth. 

The Path
Read at Douglas Lord’s Funeral Nov. 3, 2001

Harvest moon beams softly falling upon the darkened soil. Many walk upon this path of an empty trail, seemingly endless. Jagged cold rocks, too big to move, too high to climb. Searching the way through the bitter darkness like winter as he waits for far distant summer. Forward, moving forward, but where? For it is night. A frigid breeze flowing by and stinging an un-mended heart.

Shattered glass upon the path, cutting naked tender feet. A waterfall of tears riding upon a valley of pain, flowing nowhere. Lost in this forest of blackened hunger. Thirsting, aching. A fog of thick un-yielding questions permeate, pounding, unforgiving. Wilted flowers, fallen atop pebbles of yesterday. Pedals forlorn, a broken stem and a lighted harvest moon… why?

One arrives in the darkness, a Gardener. Plain, simple and serenely simplistic is this man of tempered clay. With the light of the sun in his bright burning eyes, with wings of all powerful love graced upon his back, with peace floating on his cheek and an all masterful plan written deep within his breast the Gardener steps onto the path with marks in his earth shaped feet and soft open hands. As he speaks a blanket of overpowering peace gushes forth.

A peace, sinking into the darkest forgotten corner. Like a blaze of burning fire it inflames a once cold and empty bosom. Engulfing a once gray and tired mind. Beyond time and into sweet memories. Memories of a being, a school boy of long ago. A smile to cheer and a love for all. A heart so big, so full. A love for even the tiniest of animals. Dirt and boyhood toys, together we played, we laughed yet never needed to cry. His parents, hearts of in-measurable gold. Rich in happiness, open and caring to all. Memories of my childhood friend, my little buddy. A laugh to make secure the heart of the loneliest stranger and a desire to give to all. Standing in a pool of memories upon the endless years are we.

Appearing again, the Gardner to point out the path ahead. Speaking to the soul the all masterful plan, a plan of enflaming happiness, for you,  for me. To live, to live again, death hath no chains to bind. For these engulfing bands have been broken by the Gardner. For he kneels and with tears he picks up the fallen flowers, pedals and all. Holding them close he turns to meet our gaze, an eternal and hope filled smile. A gentle nod and the once broken flowers, the flowers thought lost, change. No longer brown and lifeless are they. Green, a pure love filled green to stay, to live. A dove descends and the Gardener departs. With the white elegant dove to guide our way the path is clear, no longer alone and a joy filled hope in our eyes. We see anew. Along the pebbled path flowers wilt and flower die, but in time will live forever.

Doug and me on my 8th Birthday

Goodbye Doug, till we meet again. 

-The Feeble Soul  
© 2013

Lessons Learned Behind the Church Pulpit

Sermon Behind the Pulpit

Published in "The Ensign" Sept. 2013  p. 76

As my family sat a few rows behind the deacons one sacrament meeting, all I could think about before the opening hymn was that one of the 13 year old deacons had failed to properly tie his long tie and correctly tuck in his wrinkled shirt. I thought someone should have helped him out. After all, when passing the sacrament, deacons should be an example of the Savior in action and dress.

The meeting proceeded, and I forgot about him. After the deacons had passed the sacrament, the talks began. The second speaker was the young man’s mother. She spoke of her conversion, of her trials growing up, and of her struggles as a single mother. It was a wonderful talk that left her in tears. She took her seat on the stand and continued to cry as the ward choir gathered to sing.

Just then her son, with his crooked tie and untucked shirt, stood and walked to the stand. He hugged his mother and crouched beside her to comfort her. Tears came to my eyes as the scene played out before me; I was touched beyond words. But then realization dawned, and I hung my head. Sitting in my crisp double-breasted suit, with my perfectly tied tie and polished black shoes, I realized I had truly missed something in preparing for the sacrament.

The young man and his mother came down from the stand and sat together as the choir began to sing. I sat there, unable to listen to the music because the sermon taught by this deacon flooded my heart with a message of Christlike charity.

He had performed his act with tenderness and care. There was not the slightest sign of embarrassment on his young face—only pure love. The subsequent messages over the pulpit that day were good, but I will always remember the sermon behind the pulpit.

-The Feeble Soul

What is The Feeble Soul?

In an attempt to express myself I have found that it is done out of a recognition of the "natural man" that is found within. The selfish and prideful aspect that hides deep inside, awaiting to flourish. This natural man is like a snake that rises up, poised to strike. Hiding, sometimes for days or weeks, but always there.
Often I find myself in situations where I am reminded that I am weak and am merely a feeble soul, struggling to see the goodness within myself and others.
There are times that cause me to hang my head as insight dawns and I glimpse small pieces of Godliness in the actions of others. These experiences need to be shared. To inspire others to look inside and uproot their own weakness as I feebly struggle to do the same. To delve into further introspection leads to the conclusion that maybe if others are inspired to overcome their struggles it is possible that maybe I might be able to do the same.

What is The Feeble Soul? It is me...