Painful Process

I Shall Be Whole by Al Young

       Pain can come in so many different forms: physical, mental, spiritual, emotional... Each one affects us differently and is individual to us. We can only try to sympathize and/or empathize with the pain of another person because we will never truly experience the exact same amount or type of pain as they have. Every individual is burdened with different types and degrees of pain. In a way, pain is like a snowflake, never exactly the same as it was before. Our bodies, minds, and hearts adapt after experiencing pain, and so every subsequent pain is altered by anything that came before. Pain can be remembered and held on to, like a grudge. Most often, pain can only be felt, but not visibly seen. As the hymn "More Holiness Give Me" so eloquently puts, "Sorrow that the eye can't see." Pain is almost impossible to measure because it is so unique to each person.

      But the real beauty of pain is the fact that is the start of  process towards strength. Whatever the end result may be, we eventually know that pain will end. It will shape us to be better people, and help us to become who we need to be. Exercising is the best metaphor for this concept. When you work out for the first time in a long time, your muscles feel it. There is an ache in your bones that tells you that you are molding your body into something better. The loss of breath, the roar of your thighs, the desire to collapse: all of these tell you to keep up the work. Your body will eventually use the pain to strengthen itself. It will become better because you have endured the pain. The pain will lessen as you continue to exercise, to teach your body how to find new levels of strength.

      All of these thoughts stem from a painful weekend, on all different levels. A sore throat, aching body,  and a broken heart vary in levels of intensity. And fortunately the reality is, the pain will not last. Eventually my throat will heal, my body will replenish, and my heart will mend with time. These different levels of pain will take different amounts of time to overcome. I will have to work and wait in patience until the pain will entirely subside. But when it is over, I will have become a stronger and better person. The pain will have taught me new lessons: get more sleep, take better care of myself, and to be a more compassionate person.

      And the most incredible thing about all of this pain is the resounding fact that one individual does exist that understands my pain: my Savior, Jesus Christ. He knows my sorrows and my struggles. He knows what I have gone through. One of my favorite heroines of the scriptures is the Woman with the Issue of Blood. I can empathize with her pain in a very personal way, and I have always admired her powerful faith. She knew that if she only touched the hem of the Savior's robe and had the faith, then she would be healed. This short exchange with Christ teaches us so much about her and about Him. I want that kind of faith. I want to be that aware that I could notice when someone in a crowd would reach out and touch me. I want the Savior to heal me. Because I know that He is the only one who will truly heal me. This was reaffirmed to me last night as I was searching for comfort and discovered the most recent Bible video on the Mormon Messages YouTube Channel: Jesus Heals a Woman of Faith. I recommend it to everyone. It brought me comfort, and it reaffirmed my knowledge that it is only through the Savior that we can truly be made whole. He will help us turn our pain into strength. And that is the musing of a marvelous me.

      How have you overcome pain? Who are your heroines or heroes for finding strength in pain? Please share your musings with me.

Mudslides and Memories

          Hello, blogging world! This is my venture into a writer's blog, and so I think the best way to begin is with a story from today. New beginnings, new stories, new adventures. So read on to take a peek into the musings of my mind...

         I am taking an English class that I absolutely love, but this morning, I overslept my alarm and was running behind. There is a detour by my apartment that makes getting to class on time really difficult, so I decided to take a shortcut I have tried a few times before. Speed walking down a grassy hill surrounded by trees is not a good idea. I looked up momentarily to see two handsome guys walking uphill, and I thought to myself, "See, other people take this route too!" I looked back down to notice that it was getting progressively muddier, and that is when I slid straight through the mud. I took a knee but popped right back up, determined to make it to class on time. Tim Tebow would have been proud. But then I caught a glimpse of my leg and shoe and realized I was covered in a thick layer of mud and grass. To add to this incredible moment, I could hear the attractive guys muttering obvious things like, "Oh, man, she just slid in the mud!" and "That sucks!" That is when I knew I had to give up and go home. There was no way I could go to class looking like that. Not even if I stopped into a bathroom and tried to clean it off. It smelled like embarrassment, and my red Toms looked like they had survived a muddy soccer game. I really had slipped in the mud.

      There is this really lame feeling that washes over me whenever I have to miss class. It is a feeling of being lazy and unmotivated. I hate that feeling. I love school, in a weird 'I'm Hermione Granger!' kind of way. And I particularly love this class, my senior thesis writing course on Women's Folklore. I did not want to miss today. However, getting covered in mud and realizing I could not violate the professor's tardy policy is enough to force me to give up. I came back to my apartment and washed the mud off, all the while planning my e-mail explanation to my professor. The running water offered a soothing moment to remember that this was not the first time I had been late to school because I slipped in mud. In junior high, I was late one day and slid in a big patch of mud on the road to school. I covered my favorite pair of dark wash American Eagle jeans in a thick layer of mud. Being a true pre-teen, I cried as I pathetically trudged back home. I came home, changed my pants, re-brushed my hair, and my dad drove me back to school. This experience turned into a funny anecdote with my friends, but now that is happened to me twice, I think I want something more from it. (I should also add that I am proud to say that tears were not my immediate reaction this time.) 

       So here is what I have come up with: Sometimes, mud happens. It may be a normal day, with nothing but simple plans. It does not necessarily have to be a day with excitementand high hopes. It can just be a routine schedule, and then... mud happens. As much as this sounds like a simple, home-spun homily, it all depends on what you do with the mud. You can choose to let it ruin your day. You can be angry and curse Utah County for running sprinklers in shady areas, and in the morning no less?!? You can rant about professors who have tardy policies and feel the need to control their classroom like a high school is run. Or, you can take the time to calm down, wash off the mud, and then take a day to yourself. Start a blog that a kind friend suggested, eat the breakfast that you skipped, and catch up on some reading to get ahead of the weekend. Mud happens, but life moves on. And that is the musing of a marvelous me. :)

      Please subscribe to my blog, as I hope to make my posts a common occurrence. I would also love any comments or thoughts on my experience. C. S. Lewis said, "We read to know we are not alone." Well, right now, I would love to read that I am not the only one who has ever slid in mud on a normal day.