First, random thoughts:
I kinda dread fashion. I try to look nice but do not care enough to figure out how. Some days I just get lucky. Male fashion at BYU is fairly ordinary, except for Taggart who always looks great in a vest (at least every time I've seen him). The gals on the other hand, crickey! High-waisted skirts? Rather strange. I'd like most of them, length and design, if they weren't clinging to their rib cages by a ridiculously wide belt. But I'm just a long skirt kind of guy. It sways. Remember the curtain that hid the Wizard of Oz. That is what skirts do for me. It is the gentle notion that I really have no idea what is under there but it must be powerful and beautiful to move the rest of her. Is that the adventurers' spirit? The beauty in mystery. Will it still be as beautiful once it is realized?
Snow is great. I love snow. Everything about it really. It is better than rain because it doesn't necessarily get you wet. It is cold and helps me clear my head. You can build with it. You can throw it. Snow is the lego of winter. You can do anything with it. It is even great for washing your hands (because the ice is rough and scrapes off gunk but it melts too so it removes it too) And it is beautiful. So serene. This last week it snowed one afternoon and as I looked at the mountains the snow line was just below the Y. It looked like someone had taken a giant paint roller over the top half of the mountain with white, but only once so that there were still some spots bare. I really appreciated the sight.
This morning I stumbled upon a random book of poetry (from 80 years ago!) Still in good condition. Flipping through it, I found two of my favorite poems, "O Captain, My Captain" and "Horatius."
"O Captain, My Captain" is one of those poems that comes to mind over and over. It is like the game or "Here Comes the Sun," so many events connect to it that it has a certain sorrow to it, a certain reflection. Generally events revolving around death, such as Gordon B. Hinckley's passing, but even when President Jardine's mission ended it was in the forefront of my mind. The poem amazes me because it shares so much excitement and disappointment. The victory was won, they were home, everyone was safe. Well, every was safe except the captain. The best among them was the fallen, the sacrifice.
Increasingly I see Christ all around me. In the beauty of mystery, one reason I love the Gospel is that there is always more to learn, understand, and share. In the snow, I doubt it was just for me but knowing that Heavenly Father loves me enough to send a little snow to a boy in need of memories means a lot. He also loved me enough to send someone more pure than snow to cleanse me without the cold. We're gonna make it home because of our Captain. We will all reside in safe harbors someday because our Captain led us there. Even for those who do not like Him, they are on His boat and will arrive safely to shore where they can then decide to leave Him and His crew. He loves them enough to give them that choice. I hurt when I read this poem. It is a good hurt. A necessary hurt. I hurt when I, step by step, find parallels and symbols of Christ's sacrifice. It is a good hurt. A necessary hurt. Probably what hurts the most is wondering who will I captain and will I do the same for them?
My father has memorized several poems. As he has aged some have steadily slipped from his mind. I remember long rides through the countryside of Nebraska and hanging on every line of the "Jabberwocky" as he recited it. Another childhood favorite was "Horatius," a real hero of ancient Rome (actually, the word "hero" is derived from his name. At least that is what dad always told me and I'm not about to find out if it is wrong). The poem is rather long but weaves a wonderful story. A gruesome fight. Rome might fall. Three heroes step forth to defend the bridge. The townsfolk start tearing the bridge down as the three fight off enemy after enemy. The bridge is almost down and the city is almost secure. The townsfolk cry out to the heroes to return. Horatius stays to make sure. He is wounded, a deep slash to his thigh. The only way home now is death or to swim across the swollen river that is to be the cities salvation. He leaps in. Allies and enemies cheer him onward as he swims and struggles.
What hits my heart is the depth of the poem. It is no philosophical subject, it tells the story of a fight and some heroics. But the details are so easily processed that you can see everything going on. You throw yourself into the story, fearing you'll miss out an ounce of the adventure. The immersion is so deep that you find the messages that are not there in words but in paintings. Would I have stood with the three? Would I have gone back when my battle was done? Would I have given praises to God when my enemy made it home? These are tough questions for me. I will never have to fight with a sword. The stands I might be called to make will probably involve no tool of death. Words will be fired. Conceptions will be cut apart. Can I stand together? Can I stand alone? I find it dangerous to think "I can do it because Christ could do it" because it leads me to "if Christ could do it, I can too." That is not true. But I do know that I can accomplish anything in front of me as long as I'm doing it for the right reason (which also means there are things I cannot do because there is no right reason for doing it), the Lord gave me at least that much power.
I kinda dread fashion. I try to look nice but do not care enough to figure out how. Some days I just get lucky. Male fashion at BYU is fairly ordinary, except for Taggart who always looks great in a vest (at least every time I've seen him). The gals on the other hand, crickey! High-waisted skirts? Rather strange. I'd like most of them, length and design, if they weren't clinging to their rib cages by a ridiculously wide belt. But I'm just a long skirt kind of guy. It sways. Remember the curtain that hid the Wizard of Oz. That is what skirts do for me. It is the gentle notion that I really have no idea what is under there but it must be powerful and beautiful to move the rest of her. Is that the adventurers' spirit? The beauty in mystery. Will it still be as beautiful once it is realized?
Snow is great. I love snow. Everything about it really. It is better than rain because it doesn't necessarily get you wet. It is cold and helps me clear my head. You can build with it. You can throw it. Snow is the lego of winter. You can do anything with it. It is even great for washing your hands (because the ice is rough and scrapes off gunk but it melts too so it removes it too) And it is beautiful. So serene. This last week it snowed one afternoon and as I looked at the mountains the snow line was just below the Y. It looked like someone had taken a giant paint roller over the top half of the mountain with white, but only once so that there were still some spots bare. I really appreciated the sight.
This morning I stumbled upon a random book of poetry (from 80 years ago!) Still in good condition. Flipping through it, I found two of my favorite poems, "O Captain, My Captain" and "Horatius."
"O Captain, My Captain" is one of those poems that comes to mind over and over. It is like the game or "Here Comes the Sun," so many events connect to it that it has a certain sorrow to it, a certain reflection. Generally events revolving around death, such as Gordon B. Hinckley's passing, but even when President Jardine's mission ended it was in the forefront of my mind. The poem amazes me because it shares so much excitement and disappointment. The victory was won, they were home, everyone was safe. Well, every was safe except the captain. The best among them was the fallen, the sacrifice.
Increasingly I see Christ all around me. In the beauty of mystery, one reason I love the Gospel is that there is always more to learn, understand, and share. In the snow, I doubt it was just for me but knowing that Heavenly Father loves me enough to send a little snow to a boy in need of memories means a lot. He also loved me enough to send someone more pure than snow to cleanse me without the cold. We're gonna make it home because of our Captain. We will all reside in safe harbors someday because our Captain led us there. Even for those who do not like Him, they are on His boat and will arrive safely to shore where they can then decide to leave Him and His crew. He loves them enough to give them that choice. I hurt when I read this poem. It is a good hurt. A necessary hurt. I hurt when I, step by step, find parallels and symbols of Christ's sacrifice. It is a good hurt. A necessary hurt. Probably what hurts the most is wondering who will I captain and will I do the same for them?
My father has memorized several poems. As he has aged some have steadily slipped from his mind. I remember long rides through the countryside of Nebraska and hanging on every line of the "Jabberwocky" as he recited it. Another childhood favorite was "Horatius," a real hero of ancient Rome (actually, the word "hero" is derived from his name. At least that is what dad always told me and I'm not about to find out if it is wrong). The poem is rather long but weaves a wonderful story. A gruesome fight. Rome might fall. Three heroes step forth to defend the bridge. The townsfolk start tearing the bridge down as the three fight off enemy after enemy. The bridge is almost down and the city is almost secure. The townsfolk cry out to the heroes to return. Horatius stays to make sure. He is wounded, a deep slash to his thigh. The only way home now is death or to swim across the swollen river that is to be the cities salvation. He leaps in. Allies and enemies cheer him onward as he swims and struggles.
What hits my heart is the depth of the poem. It is no philosophical subject, it tells the story of a fight and some heroics. But the details are so easily processed that you can see everything going on. You throw yourself into the story, fearing you'll miss out an ounce of the adventure. The immersion is so deep that you find the messages that are not there in words but in paintings. Would I have stood with the three? Would I have gone back when my battle was done? Would I have given praises to God when my enemy made it home? These are tough questions for me. I will never have to fight with a sword. The stands I might be called to make will probably involve no tool of death. Words will be fired. Conceptions will be cut apart. Can I stand together? Can I stand alone? I find it dangerous to think "I can do it because Christ could do it" because it leads me to "if Christ could do it, I can too." That is not true. But I do know that I can accomplish anything in front of me as long as I'm doing it for the right reason (which also means there are things I cannot do because there is no right reason for doing it), the Lord gave me at least that much power.
No comments:
Post a Comment