Turning from peace

I love the hymn “Where Can I Turn For Peace?” Emma Lou Thayne’s text speaks to my heart and experience:

Where can I turn for peace?
Where is my solace
When other sources cease to make me whole?
When with a wounded heart, anger, or malice,
I draw myself apart,
Searching my soul?

Where, when my aching grows,
Where, when I languish,
Where, in my need to know, where can I run?
Where is the quiet hand to calm my anguish?
Who, who can understand?
He, only One.

He answers privately,
Reaches my reaching
In my Gethsemane, Savior and Friend.
Gentle the peace he finds for my beseeching.
Constant he is and kind,
Love without end.

For me, the key is in the first stanza: “I draw myself apart.”

I have lived long enough to know how I draw myself apart.

I can feel it when it happens now. And fortunately it is not a common experience. But I am aware enough to see it, just the way I could see the impending accident years ago when a blown tire caused me to skid and spin and flip off a freeway in Venezuela. At that time, I took my foot of the accelerator; I counter-steered. And still I skidded and spun and eventually rolled over off the road and down the embankment where I landed a little bruised but otherwise none the worse for wear. (Not so my vehicle – it was totaled.)

An example: A harmless conversation that in an instant went poorly. I might have foreseen it, since it was a political question. But we’d talked about the subject before, so I assumed we agreed when in fact we didn’t. The disagreement set off my defenses, and I responded far too quickly. And as quickly as it started, communication ended, shut down. Silence.

There were no harsh and angry words exchanged. This was not a debate nor an argument. It was silence.

In my heart my aching grew. I sought that quiet hand to calm my anguish. I apologized, knowing an apology was not enough. I prayed silently for peace, for comfort, for guidance.

Here’s the remarkable thing: In the first stanza I find myself searching my soul with anger and malice, and yet I still crave the healing touch of my Savior. My aching grows as I realize my role, and I feel that anguish that comes in realizing my own weakness. My only choice is to seek mercy – the mercy of Him who has power to save, and the mercy of the person I’ve offended.

In that instance, as He spoke peace to my soul, so did my lovely wife. As He reached my reaching, so did she. Love without end, indeed.

Expectations of Control

This is number two in a series of I don't know how many installments, and I don't know how long it will take for me to tire myself out on this subject. I promise I won't only cover this topic over the next while, but it so happens this one follows the introductory post, here.

In 12-step programs, one of the hallmarks is identifying through a personal inventory the sources of resentment in a person's life and working through them. Often, the resentments lead a person to the behaviors that bring him to the 12-step program – substance abuse, eating disorders, co-dependence and so on. It stands to reason, then, that helping to sort through the underlying resentments helps a person to have the strength to deal with the addictive behavior in his life.

(Most 12-step programs will not try to cure a person of his addictions; indeed Step One makes clear that the addicted person cannot resolve the addiction on his own, and most people acknowledge that addiction is a life-long condition that requires management, like diabetes, rather than a cure.)

In my case – and this is true for many people who work through the steps (and I believe that most Latter-day Saints would benefit from working the steps, even though most of us are not addicts) – I discovered that nearly all of my resentments came from unmet expectations.

More specifically for me, I had an expectation about the outcome of events, I tried to control those outcomes, and I failed; resentment (and often more powerful emotions) followed.

One of the hallmarks of the “Anon” programs designed for family members of addicted loved ones (for instance, Al-Anon) is the giving up of expectations. It’s not unusual for a frustrated parent to say, “I expect to be treated with respect,” or “I expect my son to clean his room.” That construction raises a red flag because unmet expectations lead to resentment, and our lack of control over other people leads to unmet expectations. By establishing un-meetable expectations, we set ourselves up for recurring resentments.

A popular saying I’ve heard in 12-step recovery is this: You have a right to be treated with respect, but cannot expect it to happen. What that really means is that one has the right to choose how to react when he or she is not treated with respect, for instance.

Parents sometimes couch their family hopes and dreams in terms of expectations: We expect our children to study hard, to go to church, to serve missions, and so on. Experienced parents learn over time that they do not own their children’s future or their dreams. Just because I think my daughter should be a doctor does not mean she thinks she should be a doctor. And in the end, she will be the one choosing.

When I am successful at curbing my expectations, I am calmer about outcomes that are different from what I may have hoped for. I am more accepting and tolerant of other points of view. And I am happier.

The Blessing of Forgiveness

A counselor in our stake presidency spoke in our sacrament meeting a couple of weeks ago about forgiveness. It’s a talk he had prepared for our last stake conference, but was unable to give because of a family emergency. What a blessing that we got to hear it finally.

He spoke about the Savior’s injunction:

I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men (D&C 64:10).

He wondered why we seem to have a harder task than the Savior. We must forgive everyone, and He can choose.

Of course, he allowed that the Savior has greater insight and judgment, and that the Savior made the great and atoning sacrifice, so He is in a position to behave differently than we are.

But, our speaker said, another real reason for the Savior’s direction to us is for us. Our forgiving someone else brings us peace.

Forgiveness is the act of our no longer feeling bitter about wrongs done to us. Forgiveness is not the granting of absolution or the excusing of someone from consequences. It is our letting go of the offense and moving on.

Failure to forgive breeds resentment, and resentment distorts our worldview, tainting so much of what we see. You have heard that old saw, that resentment is like drinking poison and hoping the other person will die. (That quotation is attributed to the Buddha, Nelson Mandela, Carrie Fisher, AA, and others – someone else can sort out its origin.) Holding on to anger is decidedly unproductive at best, and can be destructive at its worst.

President Monson, when a counselor in the First Presidency, spoke about hidden wedges in a general conference address. (And he credited President Kimball's citation of the same idea as early as 1966.) Those hidden wedges, he said, were resentments or grudges that we carry over time that damage our personal relationships. The way to avoid them is to forgive freely and quickly.

In my own experience, that forgiveness is only possible as I tap into the blessings of the atonement. Alma reminds us (through what he taught the people of Gideon) that the Savior would

go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people. And he will take upon him death, that he may loose the bands of death which bind his people; and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities (Alma 7:11-12).

The Savior has already carried the pain of resentment that I might feel because he has taken upon himself the pains of his people. He can bring me comfort because he understands how I feel.

It is easier for me to forgive people I do not know, perhaps because I see my loved ones more, or perhaps it is just my weakness that I am most vulnerable when the stakes are highest.

But by forgiving someone close to me – without expectation of restitution for my perceived loss – I find a sweetness that is difficult to describe. In that moment when my heart melts just a bit and I allow love to replace bitterness, I feel that pure love of Christ working on me and through me, and I capture a glimpse of what the gift of charity feels like in practice.

For me that process can be conscious or not. Subconsciously, sometimes time and distance is all I need – a walk, a few minutes on my own, a chance to count to ten (or a hundred and ten).

Other times, I benefit from a specific choice. I may decide consciously to take the other person’s point of view. I may ask myself the question that Terry Warner taught me in The Bonds That Make Us Free: could I be wrong?

It is amazing to me the power of that question when I feel hurt. It is not, as I thought initially it might be, self-condemning, but rather liberating, as it allows me to break out of a cycle of fruitless pain.

That we are to forgive all men (and women) is a great blessing because it can free us from the bitterness and resentment that is the alternative.

Anti-Nephi-Lehis as Peacemakers?

In a Gospel Doctrine class the other Sunday our instructor led a great discussion about the choice by the Anti-Nephi-Lehis to bury their weapons of rebellion. We discussed what our modern-day weapons of rebellion might be, and we discussed the value of the Anti-Nephi-Lehis’ act of burying their weapons. It was a really good lesson, and I left with lots to think about.

Including this: Our instructor suggested that one of the qualities of the Anti-Nephi-Lehis was that they were peacemakers. I took exception to that idea in the class (and I still do). Another class member jumped in to focus on the individual peace that must have led the Anti-Nephi-Lehis to their choice to bury their weapons as token of their covenant with God. Not wanting to derail the lesson, I let it go.

But what ran through my mind was this (despite my own anti-war pre-disposition): by burying their weapons of rebellion, they also buried their weapons of self-defense, as they then almost immediately (in the account, anyway) demonstrated. The Lamanites soon fell upon them and slaughtered over 1,000 as the Anti-Nephi-Lehis bowed on the ground and called upon God. Whatever else they did, they did not create peace.

I thought how today we might not encourage such devoted behavior, opting instead for a more pragmatic approach, sort of a hate-the-sin-and-retain-your-weapon compromise. But the Anti-Nephi-Lehis were more committed than that. They were ready to give their lives as a token of the covenant they had made to repent of who they had been.

The real cost of that covenant became more clear in subsequent chapters as the Nephites welcomed them into the Land of Jershon, renamed them the people of Ammon, and then sent armies to defend them. What follows next is an account of a huge and bitter battle between the Nephites and Lamanites (more non-peace). Perhaps the battle would have come without the people of Ammon, but the Nephite armies did defend them. And losses on both sides were huge.

Two lessons for me:

1. What is the token of my covenants with God? How much am I really willing to bury the weapons of my rebellion? And what cost am I willing to incur?

2. Am I willing to support others who bury the weapons of their rebellion? At what cost am I willing to protect my brothers and sisters in the gospel who are choosing to honor the covenants that they have made?

For me the second lesson brings new meaning to the Savior’s injunction that I should not judge. It is not my place to determine whether another person has overestimated what he must do to honor a covenant. Indeed, it is my place to love and support him or her as part of my faith community (and perhaps to learn faith from him or her, as well).

Peace

In Germany we called the day after Christmas “second holiday.” In the British Empire it’s known as Boxing Day. For me, it’s one of my favorite days of the holiday season.

I’m fortunate to work for a US company that shuts down between Christmas and New Year’s, and so I always have that week off work (unless I’m working at an overseas affiliate in a country that doesn’t celebrate Christmas as I’ve done twice before – then I use vacation days).

As much as I love getting ready for Christmas (and despite whatever I’ve said to my lovely wife on Christmas Eve, I really do love getting ready for Christmas), I also love the relaxation that comes after the Big Day, too. We can calmly visit, play with the Christmas gifts (or read or watch them), eat left overs (from the Swedish Smorgasbord on Christmas Eve and the Christmas ham dinner and whatever cookies we may not have given away). Really sweet.

Our Christmas Day was delightful. We had a plan, since we had 10 am church added to our Christmas mix, and our kids were very supportive and helpful, allowing my wife to get to church plenty early to play the prelude. Our sacrament meeting was superb for several reasons:

1. Our deacons normally pass with eight young men and this week (perhaps anticipating a lighter attendance), they passed with only six, and we had a much larger than normal attendance, so the sacrament portion of the meeting took nearly twice as long as normal. That was really nice from my point of view, since it’s the point of the meeting, and it was cool to take the sacrament on Christmas Day.

2. We sang eight congregational hymns. All but the sacrament hymns were Christmas carols, and even the sacrament hymn was God Loved Us So He Sent His Son, so it also nodded to the Savior’s birth. Both our ward organists played, which was also cool.

3. Our bishopric were the speakers – each for five minutes or less. Lots of scriptures and tight testimonies. The spirit was terrific and their messages were really meaningful to me. They speak very rarely in our ward, and I’m glad when they do.

We opened “Santa” presents early in the day, then had our traditional breakfast (more of the smorgasbord from the night before) before going to church. We opened the rest of presents after church, while Skyping with our kids who were in the Pacific Northwest instead of at home. Amazing that we could be “together” that way.

I’m grateful for a holiday that brings me to focus on the Savior and on my family in the way that Christmas does. I know theoretically I could do this any day of the year, but there is something about Christmas that makes it special.

I always hit that moment in the days before Christmas where I’m sure that we will either not get everything done or that something will not be enough. And I’m always happy when I’m wrong. And this year, thank goodness, I was wrong again.

Peace.

The Power of Worrying

There’s plenty to worry about in the world. Macro events, micro events. Global warming, unusual weather patterns, natural disasters, war. Family concerns. What the kids are up to. Will one's job last? Will one finish school? Will one get accepted into school? And on and on.

All of these things (and more!) can disturb our peace of mind.

The question is, does worrying do any good?

Not for me.

Part of the point of the gospel is to bring us peace. Consider the Savior’s words to Peter and the apostles prior to the Lord’s atoning sacrifice. Just after he prophecies that Peter will deny him three times, the Savior says, “Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me” (John 14:1). Later in the same chapter he says, “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” (verse 27).

Don’t worry. (Resist the urge to hum like Bobby McFerrin.)

Telling someone not to worry is a little like telling someone not to think about an elephant. The first thing that comes to mind is the elephant. The best ways not to think of an elephant is to think actively about other things. In John 14, the Lord reminds his apostles of the many mansions in his father’s house. He does the same thing in Doctrine and Covenants 98. Think about those mansions in heaaven.

Taking the long view seems standard counsel for those who suffer privations in this world. And it works for me.

I often write about my experience with the 12 steps of recovery. The first three steps are commonly summarized in this triplet: “I can’t. God can. I think I’ll let him.” Those first steps are all about what’s in my power to control and what isn’t. For the alcoholic or addict, the addiction is not in his control. For the loved one of an addict, the addiction (or any person) is not in his control.

A friend of mine recommended once that I ask myself a question when I begin to worry: “Whose problem is this?” If it’s mine, then I can worry about it only enough to do something about it. If it’s not mine, then I ought to stop worrying about it and focus on things I can do.

One way for me to stop worrying about things that aren’t mine is to focus, as my friend recommended, on my own knitting. Another is, as the Savior taught, to take the long view. Sometimes I do an exercise that walks me to the most awful possible conclusion of a particular concern. Then I take a deep breath and tell myself (out loud), “And that’s ok.” And it is. In the long run, the eternal scheme of things, I can accept much more now than I used to.

But if I had to rely on myself alone, I doubt I could do it. I also require the grace of the atonement to calm my troubled heart. My faith lifts and supports me when I need it most.

In the end, Emma Lou Thayne’s text describes my experience. The last two verses of “Where Can I Turn For Peace”:

Where, when my aching grows,
Where, when I languish,
Where, in my need to know, where can I run?
Where is the quiet hand to calm my anguish?
Who, who can understand?
He, only One.

He answers privately,
Reaches my reaching
In my Gethsemane, Savior and Friend.
Gentle the peace he finds for my beseeching.
Constant he is and kind,
Love without end. (Hymns, 129)