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.

A Still Small Voice

“And it came to pass when they heard this voice, and beheld that it was not a voice of thunder, neither was it a voice of a great tumultuous noise, but behold, it was a still voice of perfect mildness, as if it had been a whisper, and it did pierce even to the very soul.” Helaman 5: 30

“And after the earthquake a fire; but the LORD was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.” 1 Kings 19: 12

Last Sunday, President Mark Bragg, the Los Angeles Stake President, told a story of World War II in the Pacific islands. A young marine had just arrived on one of the island under siege by the Japanese, and was terrified by his first experience with combat. He managed to get through the day, and when night fell, and the battle paused, an experienced marine made his way through the lines and into his foxhole. Quietly the experienced sergeant calmed the distraught marine. He patiently answered his questions, and assured him all soldiers were afraid in the face of fire. As they sat in the dark foxhole barely able to see each other, the young marine heard a voice say, “You will make it through this war alive.” The young marine tried to see who could have said this to him, then realized that no earthly voice had spoken to him—only the spirit. He realized that the encouragement and help of the older Marine had calmed and comforted him enough for him to feel the spirit. Throughout the horrors and terrors of the rest of the war, those words of the Holy Ghost spoken quietly that night would support and strengthen him.

President Bragg explained that it is important for each of us to cultivate the peace that cultivates personal revelation in our life. It is also important for us to reach out to others and help bring them the peace that will allow them to feel the spirit of the Lord and receive personal revelation.
Our lives are so full of noise, tumult, chaos—all those things that prevent us from feeling the peace that promotes revelation. All our technology toys—cell phones, ipods, mpeg player, television, laptops, video games—scream at us from any direction. Cars, trucks, motorcycles, children, neighbors add to the clamor. In such an uproar, can we hear the still small voice of inspiration?

Years ago when I was working in downtown Salt Lake City, I rode the bus to and from work. I had worked late one evening, and it was getting dark as I hurried for the last bus to Bountiful. I was frustrated, upset, discouraged, and tired. Only one other person, a stranger, was waiting for that bus and we talked as we waited. I don’t remember what we talked about; I only remember that as we talked on the bus, I felt a peace, a hope creep into my heart that calmed me. She got off before I did, and as I rode the last few miles alone, I knew that things would work out. I didn’t know her name, who she was, or anything else about her. However, our conversation brought peace to me that evening. The peace John spoke of in John 14: 27, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

Do we carry that peace with us? Do we live so as to have the spirit of revelation every day? Do we share that peace with others, whether they be friends, those we visit teach or those we meet by accident? Are we a conduit for the spirit? Is our personal internal radio channel tuned to a calming and spiritual station that influences everyone around us, or is it tuned to a raucous, loud, jarring hard-metal station?

I loved the words of Julie Beck, the Relief Society General President, in the April 2010 General Conference when she talked about the power of women to receive revelation. “When women nurture as Christ nurtured, a power and peace can descend to guide when help is needed. For instance, mothers can feel help from the Spirit even when tired, noisy children are clamoring for attention, but they can be distanced from the Spirit if they lose their temper with children.”

It isn’t easy to struggle each day to live righteously in a world where wickedness is worshipped more than God. Yet, Sister Beck tells us, “Personal revelation gives us the understanding of what to do every day to increase faith and personal righteousness, strengthen families and homes, and seek those who need our help. Because personal revelation is a constantly renewable source of strength, it is possible to feel bathed in help even during turbulent times.” (http://www.lds.org/conference/talk/display/0,5232,23-1-1207-3,00.html)

As we struggle through these Latter-day tempestuous storms, bombarded by earthquakes, destruction, volcanoes, chaos, thunder and great tumultuous noise, can we hear the still small voice?

My Mother Painted Peace

My mother painted peace. With gentle hands she sketched pastoral valleys nesting amid tall majestic mountains. Cool, placid waters flowed from her fingers and the snows of her mountain landscapes were confined only to mountaintops.

Peace is not just the absence of conflict any more than white is the absence of color. Peace embodies a true harmony of human and personal relations, a calmness of mind and heart. Mother’s paintings reflect that harmony as a blend of color and balance that conveys tranquility. Several of her paintings were displayed in doctor’s offices in the same way that light green paint is used in hospital settings—to calm the troubled minds of the patients.

One of Mother’s earliest paintings, a night camp, shows her love of the outdoors. It also demonstrates in a delicate way, Mother’s faith that even in the absence of the sun, God sends light to reflect his love.

“There is too much conflict in the world,” Mother once told me when I complained that her paintings were all the same. “I want to do in my paintings what I can’t do in life. I want to smooth off all the sharp edges and paint over life’s distortions. I try to capture peace and serenity on my canvases, not violence and suffering. I try to concentrate on the good and ignore the rest.”

Mother’s paintings reflected her personality—she was a delicate, soft-spoken woman who radiated a serenity that is rare in today’s high-decibel world. Neither the hardships of the Great Depression, nor the atrocities of World War II seemed to have marred her sweet amity.

Mother’s last two paintings, however, were a dramatic departure from the rest of her paintings. Rather than using the shades of blue and green that are so prevalent in all her other paintings, she used vibrant orange, brown and grey hues. Rather than pristine mountains and placid meadows, these show the stark landscape of southern Utah, an area that she felt lacked beauty.

Rather than calm, carefree summer, these were the only winter scenes that Mother painted. Yet, despite the barren trees, frozen snow and sullen skies, her signature serenity shows through the paintings.

Do these paintings reflect Mother’s tremendous suffering from cancer in her final years? In embracing and painting the Utah Canyonlands that she had disliked so intensely, did she accept the pain and agony of the cancer that destroyed her physical body, but elevated her spirit? Were these paintings self-portraits of a bared and defenseless soul?