A Radically Changed Heart: An Easter Reflection on a Continuing Miracle

When I was young, I wanted so badly to be cool and to fit in. Happily I outgrew that desire. I say happily, because being cool is just not something I will ever be. In my case, there is a large gap between aspiration and potential.

I went through other phases, had other traits I wanted to, often driven by the people I was around, the people with whom I spent my time. My junior year of high school, I was taken in by a group of girls whose intelligence was matched only by their kindness and patience. They let me join their study group and in doing so allowed me, a stranger in every way, full and free access to their sodality, a group with shared history and experience, a group whose bonds approached sisterhood. Because of them, I can tell you how to discern a Monet from a Manet and recite the early city-states of Ancient Greece. Inspired by their academic facility, I wanted to be smart. I even began to study.

Other friends made me want to be funny, a trait I developed reasonably well, although I was a typical teen, meaning there was certainly more quantity than quality. My humor could certainly be on the sharper side of things, and to the extent my desire for a getting a laugh ever battled with prudence, I fear prudence never won. In that battle, I always surrendered faster than a caricature of the French army.

I've wanted to be many other things: well-dressed. Wealthy. Influential. On and on. Most of these things are worthy aspirations, at least in moderation, and I don't have any shame for desiring them. But something has happened over the years: I don't really care about any of these things anymore.

Instead, I want to be kind. I want to be gentle. I want the ability to soothe aching hearts and smooth wounded feelings. This is really quite stunning to me because I genuinely aspire to these things, although they are profoundly opposite of the person I was in the past.

I don't pretend to be there yet. I get cranky and annoyed far too easily; sarcasm was my first language, and though I've learned to bite my tongue, I fear I still speak kindness with a heavy accent.

So with the willing confession that I'm a very early work-in-progress, I go back to the desire. It is that which I find most miraculous. I've learned that the development of traits is a matter of time and practice. That doesn't mean they are easy, but I'm not sure I find them miraculous. If you want something bad enough, if you try long enough, you will eventually get there.

But desire? That is something I do find miraculous since it is not easily manufactured. It does not simply happen with time and effort. Desire is as determinative as it is elusive. It has to spring from within, authentic and organic.

As I think about this miracle, I realize something: this phase of my life is no different from other phases. My aspirations are still shaped by those I follow and admire. In this case, it is shaped by the one I most admire, the one I worship.

Over the past years, I've tried to follow Jesus. My devotion and success has had its ups and downs, but I have genuinely tried, and that has not changed.

I think it is my desire to follow him that has led me to want to be kind and gentle. Anyone who knew me in years past will probably attest that gentleness is not a trait I was born with. Meekness and the ready willingness to trade being out in front for walking behind with someone who grieves is not who I naturally am.

But I have changed. I find myself ready to accept a lifetime as an obscure teacher if it means I can do some good. In fact, I not only accept it, I willingly embrace it. Former dreams of Broadway or bestseller lists grow pale and faint. Fame or prestige or wealth seem like so many bowls of pottage, which I would quickly trade for a more subtle, less flashy birthright.

This is a miracle. In trying to follow Jesus, I have changed. Or rather, he has changed me. Not my actions, not what I do--that remains a long journey that is just beginning. But he has changed how I feel and what I want. Not refined, not adjusted, he has absolutely transformed, a full renovation of desire and intent.

I've always thought that calming a storm or turning water into wine were wonderful, but probably really involved the application of higher knowledge or law and was not, in that sense, a miracle. But the changing of a human heart? That is a miracle beyond belief--especially a heart as stubborn, proud, and hard as mine has been.

Please don't mistake what I say: I am not good. I am not all that kind or gentle yet. My ability to heal with my words is the emotional equivalent of a newly-minted Cub Scout learning First Aid. I have not yet been able to carry another's burden with any degree of consistency. But I want those things. I aspire to them as I used to aspire to be funny or smart or brilliant. I want to speak soothing words with the same urgency I once wanted to sing on Broadway. Actually, I want them more. And that is a miracle. That is the demonstration of true power, a power that is unseen, unyielding, and unlimited.

In my mind, the truest mark of Christ's divinity is not that he healed the sick or comforted the bereaved, it is not the constancy of his kindness, of his gentleness, and love. It is the fact that he has made me want to do the same. Across millennia, he has changed my heart and anointed my aspirations.

They Know: Reflections on a Weekend With an Apostle

I have so many things I am thinking and feeling. I hope I can find the words to say them. I had a rare opportunity a few weeks ago and it has changed me, I think.

Elder David Bednar came to our area to conduct training for bishops and stake presidencies in the region. For something like 4.5 hours, he answered our questions and taught us. The next day, Elder Bednar came to our stake for a special conference. I was able to spend time with him as he taught a small group of us before the meeting, able to sit next to him on the stand, and then ride with him to the airport.

I give all those details to explain just how much time I really was able to be with Elder Bednar.
In every interaction, he was kind, funny, encouraging, and very down-to-earth. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever met someone who was so real. There was no pretense with him, and he was gracious and patient in a few situations that could have been frustrating. Did I mention how funny he was?

One encounter that was particularly telling to me. As we walked up to the stand for the Sunday conference, it became clear that I would be sitting next to him. I noticed my eight-year old son at that moment. His eyes got big and he looked at me with a meaningful look and then pointed to Elder Bednar, then to me, making sure I realized I was sitting next to an apostle. I think he mouthed, "That's Elder Bednar!"

Elder Bednar saw the exchange as well. He chuckled and asked me if that was my son. I explained that it was. Elder Bednar was on a very tight schedule with a plane to catch. He didn't have time after the meeting to linger and shake hands. But he went and shook my son's hand--and my other son who was sitting next to him.

That was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes to me about him and his character, his attention to a single member of a large congregation. What he didn't know was that both my sons had been praying for a chance to shake his hand.

However, my purpose is not really to talk about Elder Bednar specifically. As much as I admire him, I understand a principle he taught: that it is the office and the keys, not the man, that is remarkable. In light of that, I want to talk about the idea of apostles and prophets, seers, and revelators, because I think I have a new understanding of what a "seer" is.

I heard Elder Bednar answer probably two dozen or more questions, giving detailed explanations and insights, speaking without notes. I noticed that he seemed to simply see and comprehend things in a different, much more comprehensive way than any of us. In fact, he had a consistent ability to help me see and understand new levels and dimensions of many things--everything from very routine programs of the Church to larger, more profound doctrinal questions.

I believe that one aspect of a seer's gift is to see things as they are, and as they relate to each other in the grand scheme of things, even apparently trivial details. It is subtle, but very valuable, a wonderful gift.

Perhaps one of my biggest take-aways from the weekend came in a small group when someone brought up a current topic that is difficult for many reasons and has generated some controversy. I've heard many people wonder if the leaders of the Church really understood everything at stake.

Elder Bednar gave an answer--a very wise, compassionate, and thoughtful one. In part, he acknowledged the complexity in a clear and compassionate way. A friend of mine who was there said something to the effect of, "You've clearly thought about this and really understand."

Elder Bednar smiled very gently and said, "When you get fifteen prophets, seers, and revelators together in a room..." he paused and then said softly, "We know."

It was not boastful or arrogant in the smallest way. It was a quiet, even humble, acknowledgement that God speaks to His servants and that they are very aware of all that is happening. There is not, as some have suggested, simply a knee-jerk reaction, nor are decisions made from some kind of insulated, sheltered bubble, or merely out of habit and tradition.

On a personal note. I went into the weekend with a deep concern. I was struggling with something--a thorn in the flesh, like Paul says. It is something that has bothered me greatly for many years, and I prayed that somehow it might be addressed.

During Elder Bednar's teaching on Saturday, someone asked him a question that had nothing to do with my concern. But when he gave his answer, he told a story to teach a principle. As he did, I almost gasped out loud because the story was an almost word-for-word description of my situation and concern. I should add that it a very unique situation, and not the kind of thing you'd casually pull out of the air as an example. I got my answer--and it was beautiful, reflective of the mercy and grace and goodness I've come to believe God demonstrates.

I know God lives. Jesus is a real and constant presence in my life, and his healing grace and kindness are so foundational to everything I know that I simply could not deny it.

But while I know Jesus is real, I accept other things with varying degrees of faith and hope. There are many things I don't understand, many things I question. Sometimes I struggle with doubt.

I believe that God speaks through prophets. I mostly believe but sometimes hope that the leaders of the Church are inspired. I have enough faith, belief, and hope that I have always tried to live my life in accordance with the counsel and teachings given by the current prophets and apostles.

That being said, I will admit to some struggles sometimes, especially recently. Although I want to believe, my faith in some teachings is tested. I have had occasion to say, "Lord, help thou my unbelief."

I have a different view after this weekend. Just as the presence of Jesus has been so fundamental that I can't deny it, I had a similar witness after my time with Elder Bednar. It wasn't anything dramatic or outwardly impressive. The experience above is part of that witness. But there is more. As we drove to the airport, I asked him a question. He turned around and looked at me. In a small car, this left us face-to-face. As I looked in his eyes and listened to him, I felt a witness, sure and deep, that this man was what I sustain him to be: a prophet, seer and revelator.

I realize what it sounds like in the 21st century to claim a belief in prophets of God. But I believe. And my belief has rooted deeply, pushing down to new levels in my heart.

They know. They really do. And I know they know.

My Christmas Miracle

After months of thought, I have decided to publish this post. It is deeply personal. For that reason, I have been reluctant to share it. But I can't escape the nagging feeling that perhaps it may be of comfort or use to someone else. So, for that reason, I publish it. Merry Christmas!

Last year, around October, I became aware of some of my flaws and weaknesses. The contrast between who I wanted to be and who I was seemed jarring. It wasn't that I had done something terrible. There was no great sin or misdeed. It was simply a consciousness of all my human failings and the distance between my aspirations and reality. There were some additional worries as well--finances were particularly vexing at the time. 

As I struggled with these feelings of inadequacy, I began to grow tired, more than that: exhausted. I had no energy and work became difficult. 

I soldiered on as best I could. With a family to support, there weren't many other options. Some days were better than others, but the trajectory was bad and getting worse. 

I went to work, doing the best I could. During spare moments, I took small naps. 

This was all the more vexing because I had started taking care of my health. I'd given up soda, most carbs, and eaten lots of vegetables. Until I got so weak, I had exercised every day since Father’s Day. 

My wife and I prayed with growing desperation and anxiety, uncertain how much longer I could simply continue to tread water. That triggered even more stress, and the downward spiral got worse.

In addition to being sick, I got very discouraged and terribly depressed.

Then, early on in December, it came to a head. By Thursday of that week, I could barely walk. I got to work and did what I needed to do to start the day, then I went to some mats to lay down. I had some Christmas music going, turned out my lights, and just went and poured out my heart to the Lord in one big jumble. 

And then I was just too tired and sick to think anymore so I tried to go to sleep.

A Christmas song came on then, one with special memories. I had sung it in the Christmas program during my first Christmas as a missionary. It brought back memories of that time.

I remembered walking around all day during those first years as a missionary. No one wanted to talk with us, so we spent a great deal of time walking. And as we walked, I filled the hours with daydreams of the future--dreamed of being a teacher. I'd do plays and conduct choirs. I'd have a classroom I could decorate, a place where we could do fun things...

I felt a little jolt of energy as I realized that my deepest wishes back then had come true. I was, at that very moment, experiencing everything I had once dreamed about.

And then the Spirit taught me. In quick succession, and in a way that transcends words, I realized that every Christmas since then had been better than the last—with a few exceptions. Each year, Christmas had been a time of healing and renewal, a time when the Lord’s blessings had been poured out on us.

Realizing all the God things God had done for me over the years changed the course of my thoughts, bringing gratitude and hope instead of despair.

I got up and started writing down some thoughts and then a quiet, but strong, impression came.

What if the problem did not stem from my weaknesses? What if it was not that I was deficient and weak and prone to error—in other words, human. What if it had more to do with the way I reacted, the way I carried the burden?

As I thought about question, an image came into my mind, the smallest glimpse of a back being whipped and beaten. Just a flash of torn and broken flesh. And then a thought, an idea, filled my mind and heart: “I was already beaten for your sins. Must you beat yourself?”

And then I thought of Isaiah and remembered that it is with His stripes that we are healed.

My body started to shake and I wept while staring at my computer screen.

In that moment, something changed. The heaviness left. I was no longer exhausted, and could easily function at work, during a demanding time. 

It’s not that I was incorrect about my flaws and weaknesses. They are real and large. But the Atonement is infinite--sufficient for all of our foolishness, malice, weakness, and even our sins. 

Without doing so consciously, I had somehow forgotten this, at least in practical terms. I had allowed myself to be so focused on my weaknesses that I had shut myself off from the source of my strength. I had, as the scriptures say, refused to be comforted.

Life is hard, and it is messy, mostly because we are so very messy. Each of us is a collection of aspirations, efforts, hopes, and many, many mistakes. Our fallen natures trip us up so easily, so often. But the Atonement is real. Christ’s suffering and triumph are real and available. They can touch every aspect of our lives and heal us, spiritually and physically. That’s the truth that I went door-to-door so many years ago trying to teach people. Over twenty years later, I am rediscovering that truth for myself.

Dancing in Despair: The Redemption of a Marriage and the Ongoing Miracle of Christmas

Somewhere about seventeen or eighteen years ago, my wife and I sat in our small apartment. Like many other young Mormon couples our age, we were in school. We had small children, bills, laundry, and not much else.

Things were difficult, and getting worse. Finances were tight. Although we believed in what we were doing, we both felt burdened by our responsibilities and the pressures attendant in what we were doing, especially the sacrifices our young -but-quickly-growing family demanded of us both. In addition to, and because of, all these thing (and some others I won't go into) the marriage was under a lot of stress. Sometimes trials are like the ache that comes after a good rigorous work-out. Other times, it's like the pain that comes when a joint isn't working properly and injury is imminent. This was quickly closing in on the latter example.

Looking back, I suppose we were not exactly in a crisis, but we were getting close. I don't think we knew that, though. It just felt like things were difficult. I think the fact that I say we weren't completely in crisis is largely because the story ended happily. Had it not, this moment would likely have been where that unhappy ending became obvious.

I remember how empty it felt to put up our meagre Christmas decorations that year: a small table-top tree I'd bought as a teenager, and a bottle of potpourri with Christmas lights wrapped inside that my wife's visiting teacher had made.

It is a bit painful to type this, because I still remember the heaviness, the bleakness, and the other things: frustration, hurt, guilt, resentment. On and on.

When we finished, we sat not very close to each other on our hand-me-down couches and turned out the lights, so the room was lit only by the lights on the tree and in the potpourri bottle. Then I put in one of my most treasured possessions: a Mannheim Steamroller Christmas tape.

The Christmas lights softened the room and made our cinderblock apartment seem more beautiful and inviting. Reality didn't exactly change, but it seemed more palatable, more enjoyable and less stark somehow.

If the lights softened the room, the music softened our hearts, a little. The songs brought back happy memories of Christmases past, of easier times, and happier days. The softness wasn't all pleasant, though. Some of those memories were also painful. Our engagement had happened in November and our marriage in February, so Christmas was a big chunk of that time. Remembering the excitement and promise of those days made the bleakness and disappointment of the current situation all the more painful.

But we kept listening, just sitting there on the couch in the softness.
At some point, we danced. I'm not sure how it started. Dancing isn't an activity we do often or naturally, certainly not spontaneously. But somehow, for some reason, we started dancing. I held her and she held me and we swayed, our movements animated by songs about the birth of Jesus. It was probably the first time in a while that we were on the same page about anything, the first time where were were together, in synch and in harmony.

Something happened that night. The dancing didn't solve our problems. But it helped open us to each other again, helped us move together again--truly together, not just the shared pain of slogging through a rough patch.

That was the first miracle.

We decided that no matter how busy we got, we'd try to spend a few minutes each night during the Christmas season sitting on the couch, looking at lights and listening to music.

We kept to that commitment, and it saw us through. One night, I was alone. I'm not sure if my wife had gone to bed, or was just occupied at the moment. But I remember looking at the lights in the potpourri jar and hearing a song. I want to say it was "O Holy Night," but I'm not sure. At any rate, for whatever reason, at that moment, it hit me: the whole point of Christmas was so a Savior could be born. A Redeemer who could repair broken things, and heal what was sick. He could even bring back things that were dead, past all other help.

That was the second miracle.

I knew all of that before, but it really hit me then. Really hit me. I felt it in a way I had never experienced. The promise of redemption suddenly seemed a deeply personal and precious thing: my personal redemption as well as the redemption of my marriage.

Things didn't get better overnight, or even over years. Life still had some curve-balls to throw at us, and we certainly had a few to throw at each other.

But tonight, I'm sitting here with my wife. We're looking at our Christmas tree. I have a Christmas mix shuffling through iTunes. And that song just came on.

 Our living room is still modest, but it's in a house we own, and the fact that the house is small simply means that every inch of every wall and piece of floor has been baptized by laughter and tears and memories.

We're sitting on a lovely, comfortable couch that is only a year old. They were Christmas presents last year. Our first new couches ever, and we still love them.

The tree is larger now, and the room is also lit by other lights from treasured decorations we've accumulated over the years. We just got home from a work very satisfying work event, which reminded us how blessed we are, and how useful that education has proven to be.

To be honest, we don't have a lot by some standards. But our lives are happy and feel abundant. It doesn't seem like we could go under at any minute. Our family has grown and matured. We still have young children in bed, but the three babies in this story are now away at college, returned from missions, and possibly on the brink of starting their own families soon.

Our marriage isn't perfect. But we're to the point where the happiness far outweighs the struggle, where the joys far outnumber the tears and stress, and we don't have to try so hard for it to work well.

In other words, our marriage isn't perfect, but I believe it was redeemed. And I believe that promise is active and continuing and available to every one of us in every aspect of our lives.

To me, that is the miracle of Christmas: redemption and renewal. Every year, it hits me again--fresh and wonderful. And once more, I stand all amazed.

A Short Reflection on Empathy, the Root of Christ-like Love

I have been making a concerted effort to address several areas of my character I find lacking. One of the most pronounced of these areas is a tendency to get irritable and cranky--usually over things that are fairly small. I've also been trying to be a good listener, one who is sincerely concerned about other people and their lives. And, I've been working on being kind and patient.

C.S. Lewis said, "No man knows how bad he is till he has tried very hard to be good....Only those who try to resist temptation know how strong it is. After all, you find out the strength of the German army by fighting against it, not by giving in. You find out the strength of a wind by trying to walk against it, not by lying down."

Well, my efforts in these areas have pointed very clearly to my deficiencies, and I've been pondering what to do.

I want to be more patient and less irritable. I'm convinced of the need; I'm willing to make a consistent effort, and so...what? What are the steps? What are the action items that take me from where I am to where I want to be?

I can just bite my tongue more, I suppose. That's progress because at least I keep my irritability inside and it doesn't hurt anyone around me. But I am not sure it works on addressing the problem itself.

I know that ultimately, change comes through the Atonement of Christ. But I also believe that He expects action and striving, that it is not simply a quick change He zaps into my heart.

So, I've been praying and pondering. What do I do?

The answer came with quiet force, and in a short time it has been quite transformative. The answer is empathy.

If I can truly see the world from another's point-of-view, I have very little room to be irritated or frustrated. If I truly understand the limitations and challenges of another's life, what he or she is struggling with and worried about, I don't have to clamp my lips shut. The feelings of irritation dissipate--they just don't matter anymore.

I think empathy is a virtue that is talked about so much now that it risks becoming a cliche, or a passing fad.

However, to the Christian, it is much more than that. It seems to me that empathy is the root of Christ's unending love and mercy for us.

Consider the words of Isaiah: "Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows." (Isaiah 53:4). Hebrews 2:17 tells us that Jesus was made like us so he might be merciful.

The Book of Mormon takes this idea into great depth. Speaking of the Messiah, it says, "And he shall 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 sicknesses of this 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)

In other words, it is not some supernatural knowledge that gives Christ His mercy and tenderness for our human weakness, spiritual and physical. It is empathy, something He gained first hand by experiencing that weakness himself. The one that knows us most--including our weaknesses and failings--is the one who also shows us the most compassion, the most patience, the most love. I am coming to believe that He is not patient, loving, forgiving, and empathetic; it appears to me that He is loving and forgiving and patient because He has empathy.

That is not a new idea; I'm not sure why I never quite put it together. But in the meantime, I am finding efforts to be empathetic to be a powerful tonic for irritation and unkindness. I have long believed that empathy was an important virtue; I'm now coming to see empathy as the root, source, or fuel for many virtues.

A Few Thoughts on the Seer Stone: This is Kind of Old News

*Update: The title of this post--about the old news--comes off a bit snarky, which was not my intent. I'm bad at titles, and was trying to sum up my post in a few words. A better title would be: "Not Quite a Secret." I would change it, but that can mess up URLs and stuff.

Yesterday, the Church released the pictures of Joseph Smith's seer stone and there has been a great deal of furor, with some people saying that they felt lied to, or at least that the truth was kept from them.

I don't mean to minimize these concerns, and I'm sorry that some people feel so troubled by this news. I am not trying to argue with anyone's feelings, nor address larger issues.  But a lot of the discussion I've seen seems based on the premise that the Church has been covering this story up, and that's the idea to which I want to respond, because it's a fairly factual sort of thing.

This seer stone/hat thing has been public knowledge, at least since at least 1993 when then-Elder Nelson's talk to the Mission Presidents was printed in The Ensign. It may well have been out there before that, but I started paying attention to stuff like this in 1993.

In the talk, "A Treasured Testament," Elder Nelson acknowledged, "The details of this miraculous method of translation are still not fully known. Yet we do have a few precious insights. David Whitmer wrote: 'Joseph Smith would put the seer stone into a hat, and put his face in the hat, drawing it closely around his face to exclude the light; and in the darkness the spiritual light would shine. A piece of something resembling parchment would appear, and on that appeared the writing. One character at a time would appear, and under it was the interpretation in English. Brother Joseph would read off the English to Oliver Cowdery, who was his principal scribe, and when it was written down and repeated to Brother Joseph to see if it was correct, then it would disappear, and another character with the interpretation would appear. Thus the Book of Mormon was translated by the gift and power of God, and not by any power of man.'(David Whitmer, An Address to All Believers in Christ, Richmond, Mo.: n.p., 1887, p. 12.)"

The Ensign is a pretty public forum, so this doesn't seem like the Church was hiding much to me.

Beyond that, the account published in the text of The Book of Mormon talked about the Urim and Thummim. It is the account I learned in Primary and Seminary. Is a seer stone all that much more unusual than the old account, which basically amounts to two seer stones attached to an ancient breastplate?

In other words, it's not like the Church has been putting forth a rational, logical explanation for years and was suddenly caught suppressing the bizarre truth. Now, if Joseph had claimed to have translated this according to his own knowledge of ancient languages, or to have written it himself, this would be shattering to those claims.

But Joseph claimed to translate this by the gift and power of God, including various seeric objects (the presence of which are mentioned in The Book of Mormon) Is the specific method or instrument really that important?

The coming forth of The Book of Mormon has always required a degree of faith and suspension of disbelief. It required believing in angels, visions, and the translation of an ancient record by an uneducated boy on America's frontier. It required faith to believe yesterday. It requires faith to believe today*.

I sincerely believe it to be the word of God. It's power in my life is beyond dispute. I feel closer to God when I read. It feeds my soul and convinces me that I want to be more like the Savior, Jesus Christ. It teaches of grace and love and mercy, of the hope for redemption, and of the physical reality of Jesus in persistent and profound ways. But these feelings have always had to be arrived at in a way that had nothing to do with the physical creation of the book.

**Update: Based on a comment, I want to make it clear that I'm not saying this doesn't matter at all, nor do I mean to imply that if someone is struggling they simply need to have more faith (in a glib sort of way. All of us need more faith, I suppose). But I did want to point out that this account has been published in an official, very public Church source and is, technically, not something new. And, that accepting The Book of Mormon has really never been a strictly rational proposition.

Tender Mercies on the Spiral Staircase: A Personal Reflection on Struggles, Blessings, and the Eternal Round

Fifteen or sixteen years ago, we lived in New York City, where we had moved so I could pursue a doctoral program. We had three small children, lived in a tiny apartment, and because of serious concerns about the local school, my wife home-schooled. We both had demanding Church callings in our small branch, and I worked full-time and went to school full-time, taking as may credits as possible to graduate as soon as possible.

We loved the people we met--neighbors, members of the Church, and colleagues at school and work. They were kind to us and so wonderful. But, we were far away from home and our accustomed support network, doing difficult things in a place that was so different than what we were used to, it seemed like a foreign country some time.

All of these factors took a heavy toll. These years were incredibly difficult in just about every dimension of life: financially, emotionally, physically, and that included a lot of stress on the marriage. It triggered some pretty severe depression and anxiety in me, and things were very bleak. (It was hard for my wife as well, but she's a private person so I'm not going to talk about her as much).

I don't mean to imply it was all bad. God certainly walked with us, and supported us, mostly by sending some of the wonderful people I mentioned above. We had some great adventures; our children were exposed to the richest cross-section of people I can imagine, saw some important historical sites, and had a bonding experience we still reference. It was hard, but it also served as crucible in some important ways.

Early on in this adventure, our district had a visitor, Elder Craig W. Zwick of the Seventy. Many of the members of our little branch had never seen a General Authority. Our branch took in some of the worst projects and areas in Brooklyn, and probably New York City. People lived very humbly, and it was beyond exciting to have a visitor from headquarters.

Because I played the piano, I was usually asked to be the accompanist at any meeting, and this was no exception. I played the hymns for a priesthood leadership meeting, the Saturday night adult session, and then the two general sessions (we always had two of everything: one in English, one in Spanish). Elder Zwick was inspiring and he fed our souls, helping us feel the Spirit, and conveying the love of God in such a powerful way it nearly felt tangible.

And then he left, and life went back to normal. Back to the day-to-day difficulties and the challenges and the intense stretching as we struggled to be parents, and struggled to pay bills, and struggled to go to school, and struggled to homeschool, and struggled to work, and struggled to be there for each other and on and on. Suffice it to say, we struggled.

For a large part of that time, we lived next door to a senior missionary couple from Utah, Elder and Sister Hymas. They adopted us and showed us great kindness in so many ways. A number of other couples did the same thing, but Elder and Sister Hymas were closest to us geographically, and also had the longest tenure there.

Sister Hymas did her laundry at the same time as my wife and she became an anchor for her. This wise and loving woman had lived through hard times, had raised a family and was now well into grandchildren. She gently gave advice sometimes, but mostly, she listened and just allowed my wife to have someone to talk to.

Well, fast-forward sixteen years or so. Saturday, I was asked to play the piano at a large Church training meeting. Because of other callings I've had, I haven't played the piano at a meeting in eight or nine years. But I was happy for the chance.

The visiting authority was Elder Craig W. Zwick. He was accompanied by Elder Hymas, also of the Seventy--the son of the Elder and Sister Hymas we loved so much.

The meeting itself was good (and that is saying something since I generally don't like meetings). But more than that, I was overwhelmed with powerful emotions.

Playing the piano in a meeting with Elder Zwick reminded me of that meeting years earlier, and I could not help but note the contrast in our lives.

Those three children have grown up now; all three of them will be heading off to college this fall, two on full scholarships. Two have returned from missions, and the other isn't old enough, but has a list of academic accomplishments that make me proud. They have all worked incredibly hard this summer, saving money and giving every indication of being successful adults.

We've since been joined by two more children, both of whom bring life and joy to our home and hearts. They will be our companions now, and we are excited to have an adventure with just the two of them.

The doctorate is done, and it has gone on to bless our lives in more ways than I can name. It has been profoundly helpful and positive for our family. Likewise with the experience I gained working full-time as a teacher in NYC.

We live now in a quiet, tree-filled place. It is a modest house, but it is more comfortable and much nicer than the old apartment where we lived. Our yard is larger than the entire block we lived on in NYC. I still go out at night and enjoy the silence, the lack of smells from uncollected garbage, and the silence--the absence of yelling or sirens or honking, or the loud garbage truck with flashing lights that came every Wednesday night at 1:00 AM to empty the dumpster in the factory across the street.

Perhaps most of all, the stress and difficulty of those years formed a bond between my wife and I. We are not perfect, nor is our marriage. But it has gone from being something we had to constantly work at, to being something we enjoy. The comfort we have with each other, the connection, and the confidence bring deep stability and comfort to us.

God has blessed us in ways I never could have imagined, and probably wouldn't have dared to dream. Our life isn't perfect, but it is so good. And so much better. In addition to the tender mercies he gave us, then--and there were many of those--I am struck by another things.

The choices we made in those years have yielded tremendous dividends. Because we were desperate for blessings, we lived the gospel as best we could, following prophetic counsel, keeping commandments and covenants. All those things--covenants, counsel, and commandments were enormous gifts from God because they taught us how to receive blessings we didn't even know were possible. They were investments in long-term blessings and happiness.

 I believe Stephen Covey was the one who suggested that when the Lord says his course is "one eternal round," we might consider that as an upward spiral.

I have noticed over the years that my spiritual life often seems circular, or at least cyclical. A wonderful scriptural example of this is the fact that the angel who was originally sent to reprove Alma the Younger was the same angel who came years later to comfort him during a trying time in his ministry (Alma 8:14-16).

I suppose the point of these experiences is to encourage us by allowing to look down that long spiral staircase and see just how far we've come. This pattern seems to me to be one of the tenderest of the tender mercies of the Lord.