Of Love and Mountains

Last Saturday my brother-in-law and I hiked Mount Timpanogos, a 11,752 foot behemoth of a mountain just a few minutes north of BYU. It was an invigorating, exhilarating, exhausting, rewarding experience.

During the hike, it stuck out to me how cordial and polite all the hikers on the trail were. Not only did they smile and say "good morning," but they would move to the side and wait while we passed on the narrow trail. Those who were already coming down the mountain path encouraged us, telling us that we didn't have far to go and that we could make it.

I was especially impressed by a comment I overheard on the summit of the mountain. Several groups of hikers sat around enjoying the view, exchanging small talk, and recouping energy to begin the trek back down the mountain. One man said, "Even if we didn't hike up at the same time, in a way we all did this together. We've shared something here."

A day later, as I was studying a talk from the last LDS General Conference in April, I understood why the hikers' cordiality and friendliness stood out to me. In his talk entitled "Love--the Essence of the Gospel," Thomas S. Monson, President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, compares our mortal experience to a journey. He states that God's great commandments for this journey are to love God and our fellow men. The hikers on Mount Timpanogos understood this, and had demonstrated love for their fellow travelers by sharing kind, encouraging words, by getting off the trail to let them pass, and even just by exchanging a smile and a greeting. As expressed by the man on top of the mountain, all of us were in it together.

As I reflected on these experiences, I came to realize how important it is that I love and serve all those around me. As President Spencer W. Kimball said, "We must remember that those mortals we meet in parking lots, offices, elevators, and elsewhere are that portion of mankind God has given us to love and to serve." If I am able to remember this principle and maintain an attitude of selflessness, then I'll be able to help people along this difficult journey, just as the kind smiles and words of encouragement helped me hike to the top of Mount Timpanogos.

Snapshots: End of Summer

Looking toward the river, I begin to scramble down the slope. My worn shoes slide for a split second on some loose dirt, then I regain traction on rockier ground. I scramble down the rocks at a slightly reckless speed, almost falling several times before the ground levels out. Then, tentatively, carefully, not wanting to fall in and spend the rest of the day with wet shoes, I venture out onto the rocks in the middle of the river. Hopping from one rock to the next I arrive at the middle of the river. I crouch down and dip my hand in, feeling the cold water, snowmelt from Mount Hood, flow between my fingers. I stay there a moment, living, feeling, experiencing; I stand. Lifting my head, I can see a sliver of the waterfall around a bend in the river. I glance back down at the river flowing by my feet one more time, then resume hopping, clambering, climbing, and sliding on toward the waterfall.

"Gather round, children," I yell in my best British accent. A dozen freshmen come forward and form a semicircle around me as I proceed to introduce them to my beloved campus. I point to the buildings, giving them their names and their (sometimes seemingly unrelated) acronyms; I explain what each building is used for, then tack on my personal touch, the secrets that it took me months to learn that have enriched my time here at BYU, the things I hope that each of them get to experience during their first year--I tell them about the musicals and the dances, I advise them to search out their classes early in the building that is built like a maze, I crack a joke and, more because I'm speaking in a British accent than because it is actually funny, everyone laughs. Then I turn to a girl in my group that is actually from England and hesitantly ask, "how's my accent?" 

"It's really good," she says, giving me a bright smile with a hint of pity behind it, "but you should stop it."

More laughter. 

Mickey Mouse

I started writing this blog post with the words “one of my favorite parts,” then realized that I use that phrase way too often. Redo:

One thing I loved about being an EFY counselor was playing games for “Family Home Evening” on Monday nights. We would play ridiculous games with names like “Gotcha!” and “Killer Frog,” then ask the simple question, “How does this relate to the Gospel of Jesus Christ?” Every single week I was astounded by the deep connections that 14-18 year old kids could draw from playing silly games. Even more than any of the individual lessons that I learned from the games we played, I learned that “all things which have been given of God from the beginning of the world, unto man, are the typifying of [Christ]” and His Gospel.

It comes as no surprise then that on my trip to Disney this last week I learned things about the Gospel from Mickey Mouse.

I’m going to preface this by saying that, as a kid, I really didn’t get Mickey Mouse. I’ve always loved Disney, but I’ve looked on Mickey Mouse as more of a predecessor to later, greater icons than as anything special by himself. But now I feel I understand Mickey, and here’s why.

Wednesday night I watched a water show called “World of Color.” It was a really spectacular combination of fountains, lights, mist screens, projectors, bubbles, and jets of fire. The story, or focus, of the show seemed to me to be about love—love for life, for family and friends, and for that special someone. It was a truly joyous experience, and it made me think about how wonderful my life is when I’m focused on loving others.

Right after “World of Color” we raced off to watch a show called “Fantasmic,” starring Mickey Mouse. The plot of the show goes something like this: Mickey dreams amazing things, Peter Pan fights Captain Hook on a life-sized pirate ship, Princes and Princesses dance and sing, evil villains plot to take over Mickey’s dream and turn it dark, Mickey has a great one-liner (“you may think you’re powerful, but hey, this is my dream!”) and blasts away all the baddies with his awesomeness. Fireworks ensue. Here’s what I got from this show—good beats evil, and does it really awesomely. The world may try to paint its way of life as being glamorous, powerful, and even inevitable, but God’s way, the good way, Mickey’s way, is truly and actually awesome. It’s fun, it looks cool, it involves dancing and singing and swinging from pirate ships, it’s awesome.

I thought I was done with shows after Fantasmic on Wednesday night, but luckily one of my buddies talked me into going to see one more, “Mickey and the Magic Map.” It was a Broadway musical quality show, with about 30 minutes of singing, dancing and cool costumes—basically it was right up my alley, the stuff that I live and breathe for. The story of this particular show was all about following your dreams, never giving up, and being yourself. While watching it I got excited for the future and all the amazing things that it will bring, and even more committed to working hard to accomplish the goals that I have set for myself.

After seeing all of these shows about Mickey Mouse, I revisited my apathetic opinion of him. I decided that Mickey isn’t just a precursor to greater icons, but rather, he is the symbol of them all. Mickey represents goodness, purity, chasing your dreams, and always striving to be better.

Those aren’t the only things I learned this week (and did I mention the amazing people I met and how much fun I had?) but I think that’s probably good for one blog post. 

What to write?

I am sitting on a pillow in a hallway outside my boy's rooms, waiting for the all-clear to be given so that I can go to bed, closing my eyes on my last day as an EFY counselor. Working as an EFY counselor this summer has been a dream come true, a learning experience, a challenge, and a joy all rolled in one.

There are so many thoughts bouncing around in my head that I'd love to get down, and I think I'll try to write at least one more blog post about my efy experiences later on after I've slept a little. However, the primary thought on my mind, the thought that has been with me from my very first week as a counselor until now, is how grateful I am to my Heavenly Father.

I am grateful that He has, through a process of time, trials, blessings, and a mission, made me into someone that has something to give at a place like EFY. He took little old me, a rather weak and simple person, and gave me a testimony of His Gospel, gave me habits and knowledge and a voice to sing with and words to teach with. And somehow, miraculously, incredibly, I've become an EFY counselor, someone that He would trust to take His precious young sons and daughters and leave them a little better than they were when they got here.

I can't wait to see what He'll do with me next. His vision for me is, and I'm sure always will be, so much more awesome than anything I could come up with myself, and I'm really excited to find out what it will be.

Thoughts on efy

I just finished my first week as an efy counselor. I’m a teensy bit tired and my thoughts are rather scattered, but I thought I’d write about some of the things I learned/noticed this week.

This Monday was my birthday. My last two birthdays were interesting, as mission birthdays are, but I noticed this Monday how really wonderful it is to have a day when people let you know they are grateful for your existence. It was quite uplifting.

When I first started my mission, I cried quite a lot. The lessons we taught were often spiritual, and I’m one of those people whose spiritual sensitivity is tied directly to his tear ducts, so I got used to carrying around tissues. After about a year, however, I stopped crying during lessons. I accepted the change, and figured that it was a part of my spiritual maturing—that because of the experience that I now had feeling the spirit, I didn’t need to cry any more. Thursday evening as I sat in devotional crying--for the third time this week--I realized that I was wrong. I’m still a big softy at heart, and may never get over my testimony-tear-duct thing.

Teenagers… I’m thinking a lot about what being a teenager is like, and how I as a young adult who was one not too long ago can best relate to and help them.

There are a lot of similarities between being a missionary and being an efy counselor. I sacrificed sleep and personal interests in order to help other people. I thought about fulfilling needs and answering questions and teaching doctrines effectively. I ate lots of salad. I woke up early. At the end of every day I was exhausted and spent, but also content and fulfilled.

There are lots of differences between being a missionary and being an efy counselor. Part of my job description was dancing energetically (and can I just say how fun it is when 10-15 teenagers are copying every dance move you do?) My companion this last week was way cuter than any of my mission companions. I was encouraged to take midday naps. Instead of being in bed by a certain time, I had to make sure that everyone else was in bed by a certain time. My leader told me to flirt with girls. 

It is in those moments when you aren't thinking about yourself at all that God will give you the sweetest and most tender of His tender mercies, teaching you things that will be of most benefit to you personally. 

I still have four more weeks as a counselor. I'm excited for everything else I still get to learn!

His hands

This last week I was trained as a counselor for a youth summer camp called "Especially For Youth," or efy. I attended efy several times as a participant and always planned to be a counselor someday, so this was really a dream come true for me. Now that training is over, my life for the next five weeks will be dedicated to helping young men and young women ages 14-18 learn about the Savior, learn how to study the scriptures, and prepare to serve missions and live true to the Gospel.

I'm sure I'll have lots of efy experiences to write about in a few more weeks once I've had a chance to be a real counselor instead of just a counselor in training (or a "shadow counselor," as they liked to call us--I usually referred to myself as one of the shadow people), but today I'd like to write about something wonderful that happened this week that actually doesn't have anything to do with efy. 

Every Thursday night at efy the main speaker of the session, called the session director, gives a fireside on the atonement of Jesus Christ. I remember these firesides being major building blocks to my testimony when I was a kid--Brother Gardner in 2006 spoke beautifully about the pain that the Savior suffered and the love that His suffering shows us, and I felt the Spirit strongly while listening to him speak. Because of these past experiences, I was expecting a spiritual experience that had to do with the atonement during this Thursday's fireside.

The session director, Brother Merril, talked about Peter walking on water and being rescued by the Savior after he let his focus wander and fell. He compared our lives to Peter's walk, how we are sometimes faithful and sometimes doubting, but that the Savior is always there to save us. He used a beautiful painting of the scene as a big part of his message, and invited the youth (and the counselors) to think about various parts of the picture; first he drew our attention to Peter's face as he fell into the water, then to the Savior's as He reached to grab Peter’s hand, and finally to the Savior's hands clasped firmly around Peter's. 

This Thursday, it wasn't Peter's face that caught my attention; his fear as he looked into the surging deep rings true to me, for it is how I feel about life without the Savior, but that wasn't what most drew me. It also wasn't Christ's face, with His look of confidence, compassion, and love that attracted my gaze. Instead, what most captured my attention were Christ's hands. 

As I looked at Christ's hands firmly clasping Peter's, I glanced down at my scriptures in my lap. Clipped to the front cover of my triple combination there is a little black name badge that says, in plain, simple letters, "Elder Ray." Below that it reads, "La Iglesia de Jesucristo de los Santos de los Últimos Días." As I looked at this name badge that for two years I wore over my heart, I realized more strongly than I ever have before how much I miss being Christ's hands.

For two years, as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day saints, I lived without worrying about myself. I dedicated all my time and energy to blessing other people’s lives. I studied, worked, memorized, learned, practice, and trained so that I would be able to speak the words that Christ would speak if He were there in my place. It was without a doubt the hardest experience of my life; it stretched me and challenged me in ways I never expected. It was also the most wonderfully fantastic experience of my life to date, in which I experienced not only pain and sorrow, but also love and joy beyond what I had ever before thought possible.

And so I sat in that crowded auditorium surrounded by crying youth, and I cried with them. I cried out of sadness that I am no longer a missionary, that my name badge has to be clipped onto my scriptures instead of over my heart where I still feel it belongs, and I cried out of gratitude that Christ ever loved and trusted me enough to make me His hands.

I’m quite clear on what my job is next, on what God was trying to telling me Thursday night. My mission was a fabulous, unforgettable experience, but missions only last two years (or eighteen months) for a reason. God wants me here now. He has other plans for me, other works for me to accomplish, other loves, joys, and sorrows He wants me to feel. But He doesn’t ever want me to forget that He made His hands. He gave me a mission call to the Chile, Viña del Mar mission that lasted two years, but long before that He had already given me a lifelong call to discipleship. Years before I became used to wearing His name on a badge over my heart, He had already asked me to take His name upon me.

But I’m ready. I’m willing. I want to make my hands His, whenever and wherever He needs me, be it during the next few weeks as an efy counselor or serving as a home teacher 50 years down the road.

Exultant

I step out into the bright, warm, cheerful sunlight and walk up the stairs. The muscles in my legs engage and tense as I run up them two at a time, my lungs filling joyfully, abundantly with air,the barest hint of a breeze cooling my face. I smile as I reach the top and look out over the campus that I love so much, at the sharp profiles of the buildings and the softer lines of the trees and flowers.

On my way to the library I delight in new acquaintances and old friends. My mind lights up as I consider the bright future, all of its potential and possibility and allure and mystery. I sigh with happiness while breathing in the past, shared smiles and laughter, fun and adventure, family, friends, and strangers, but all really just family

The words of a song recently sung bubble up from somewhere down in my soul, up into my mind and very nearly out my lips. My feet subconsciously move in smooth, sharp patterns, remembering and replicating something I danced this morning, last weekend, all my life.

In this moment a silent prayer of gratitude leaps out of me: "Thank you," I say, "for this wonderful, beautiful, glorious life."