Eternal Perspective

I went to the Atlanta Temple that spring day over 20 years ago seeking comfort and strength. My problems may have been small compared to others—but that day they appeared huge and insurmountable. The skies were leaden; the rain had been coming down in sheets for almost a week. The air was heavy and oppressive as I yearned for the sun to pierce through the gloom and warm my soul.

Sitting in the chapel in my rented temple clothing, my tears fell like the rain outside. One of the temple workers patted me on the back and whispered that it would be "all right." I looked at the name of the sister whose proxy I was that day, and wondered if all her days had been sunny; then the thought struck me with great force—of course not. Life on earth contains both joy and sorrow—too frequently we dwell on the sorrows and forget the joys.

That thought struck me with the force of an electric shock—perhaps our existence on earth was like the view we focus on when looking through a camera’s narrow lens. We determine our individual focus—whether we set a mental telephoto viewpoint which magnifies the large, immovable rocks, the encompassing weeds and the dreary mud. Or we decide whether to enlarge our focus to catch the rainbow on the edge of the sky, the gardenias blooming with breathless perfection, or the softness of the green velvet grass. The gardenia blooms whether we see it and appreciate it or not. 

Nothing limits our view except ourselves. If we move our imaginary lens too rapidly,

the landscape around us becomes an incomprehensible blur of color and texture. But if we focus on one thing to the exclusion of all else, we may miss the significance of something else. When we try to broaden our focus to include everything in sight, the panorama becomes so wide that we can see nothing distinctly. We pick and choose the focus which we concentrate on—and that affects our whole vision of life.

As the temple session began, I still slumped wearily in my seat. Although my thoughts were whirling with new insights, my shoulders still bowed with the accumulated problems of a lifetime. However, as I concentrated on the endowment ceremony, I felt an unnatural need to sit up tall, to slough off the sorrow and hold my head and shoulders high. I consciously decided I would do so, reflecting that I needed to represent the sister whose work I was doing with dignity and respect; she was not sorrowing this day, but rejoicing in the eternal significance of the blessings she was receiving.

The name of the woman whose proxy I was that day was Spanish and she had lived

over 200 years ago.  I wondered about her. Had she been rich or poor? Had she been humble or imperious? Throughout the session, whenever I would begin to slump, it was as though someone poked me in the back.  I would immediately catch myself, determined to represent the sister for whom I was proxy in a stately manner. As I concentrated on the words of the temple ceremony, and considered what they meant to her eternal progression, my mood began to change. It was as though I was adjusting the focus of my "mental" camera, and seeing things that had always been there, but which I had missed previously.

I reflected on the wonderful blessings I had been endowed with during my life, and gloried in my knowledge of the plan of salvation. I gave thanks that I had the blessings of the restored gospel during my lifetime--the Holy Ghost to guide my decisions, priesthood blessings to strengthen me, and covenants to give direction to my existence. I wondered about the sister for whom I was proxy, and if her mortal life had been difficult or easy, exalted or lowly. Most of all I wondered what her perspective on life had been. Did she mourn what she lacked, or did she see the joy and beauty which surrounded her? Whatever her life had been, I knew she was grateful for the service I was doing for her that day. For I felt a special fellowship.

          As the endowment session came to its conclusion, I looked down at my rented temple clothing, and another thought struck me. It was as though I felt a voice say, "I had much of that which men yearn for on earth.  I had wealth and did many memorable things.  But nothing I did on earth can compare with what you did for me today.

          “I wore satins and silks and was presented to royalty, but never have I been as honored as now-- for the temple robes that adorn you are more precious than any earthly raiment."  

 I reflected on my simple cotton robes I wore in her name that day. Nothing she had worn in her lifetime could compare in significance with them. For the robes I had worn symbolized covenants and promises that would not disintegrate and decay in earth’s fragile atmosphere as their earthly counterparts would.

It was still raining as I left the temple that day, but I did not feel its sting, nor did I notice the puddles it left in its wake. It seemed that my focus had shifted imperceptibly during the temple session from the mundane and dreary to a more exalted view. I looked out over the vista of Atlanta from the heights of the temple mound, and my heart took a snapshot. The scene had not changed since I entered the temple, but my focus had. The temple had helped me see with an eternal perspective.