Happy Birthday, Dad!

When he was 70, my dad started saying, "I think I'm going to die at 72, just like my dad." I'd roll my eyes and respond, "Dad, you're not going to die at 72. Grandpa smoked, and he wasn't as healthy as you." I figured dad was simply anxious as usual. He spent most of his life worrying. My mom even called him Chicken Little. After he unloaded his worries onto her, she'd say, "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!" She'd have a good laugh, and he'd be irritated, but I always thought, "Yep. That's dad. Just a ball of nerves!" And that's probably where I got my nervous nature. In fact, the most commonly-used phrase in my childhood was "I should've done [this]." I'd say it over and over and over to myself. "I should've done [this]. "I should've done [that]." I seriously could've used a regular dose of Xanax or Valium.

In like fashion, dad said, "I'm going to die when I'm 72," over and over and over again. After a while, I didn't pay much attention to it. "Oh, dad," I thought. But then he went to the hospital for a routine ablation and was never the same again. He had a severe stroke. He couldn't speak, swallow, move his hands in a coordinated fashion, or walk. He often didn't––or couldn't––open his eyes. He stayed alive with medicine and a feeding tube.

Almost two grueling years later, he died. He was 74. He had lived longer than his dad, but without a feeding tube, he most certainly wouldn't have. Besides, was he even really living those last two years? Could we call that living?

When I was a high school senior, my English teacher submitted me for the regional writing competition. On the morning of the competition, I woke up late and was in a terrible mood. Lexia and mom tried to hurry me along, and I grudgingly got ready. I don't even know why I was so mad that morning. Whatever the case, I missed the bus headed to the competition. My mom, dad, Lexi, and I pulled up to the high school just as the bus was pulling away. My mom suggested we all drive the hour to Rome, Georgia, where the competition was taking place. I couldn't believe dad and Lexi were both on board with the idea, but almost as soon as the suggestion was made, we were off.

We arrived just in time for me to write my essay. I chose to analyze the characters of The Lord of the Flies. When I finished, I left the auditorium with confidence. An odd thought popped into my head: "I just won that contest." I enjoyed the rest of the day. It was the first free day I'd had in a long time. I had a nice lunch with a friend, got to know a few new people, and generally relaxed. When it was announced that the scores were released, my friend wanted to rush to find out the results. I agreed, but I took my time to look at the board. "I know I won, so I don't need to see the results." And that's exactly what happened. I won.

I've often thought about that day. How did I know I would win? More importantly, why did it matter? Likewise, how did my dad know he was going to die at 72, and more importantly, why did it matter?

I think it mattered because it allowed him to relax to some degree. Sure, he worried about a few things he always worried about (He really needed some Xanax or Valium.), but I think he was able to wrap some things up in life that he wanted to. I think he developed a stronger love for my mom, and I think he learned to enjoy the present. He spent time with baby Banks, let himself take naps, and visited his brothers. He mentally prepared himself for the end of his life.

What a beautiful blessing––to know when your time is going to come. He had a Scrooge moment and could live life a little differently and perhaps more tranquilly.

Thing I'm thankful for: the moments when dad's eyes were open, and we could see how big and blue they were

The Brain is Not a Secondary Organ!

In Sunday School today, we studied the first few chapters of The Acts, and we spent several minutes on this verse:

Now when they heard this, they were pricked in their heart, and said unto Peter and to the rest of the apostles, Men and brethren, what shall we do? (The Acts 2:37)

Someone made a comment about the importance of feeling the Spirit in your heart. In fact, he said it's more important to feel a prompting in your heart than to think it in your mind. The gist was that you can overthink or talk yourself out of something, but you can't deny a prick in your heart.

His comment took me back to my early twenties, when I doubted my ability to recognize spiritual promptings.* At that time, I thought God must speak to everyone in their heart. With a feeling. A burning in the bosom. A gut instinct. But I didn't have many of those, and I certainly hadn't had any since my childhood. Maybe one. Maybe.

What was I to do? Was there something wrong with me? Was I past feeling? Was my heart hardened against God? I knew it wasn't, but I didn't know why I didn't recognize or receive revelation the way so many other people seemed to. So I prayed and I read scripture and I studied books and the words of modern-day prophets. I kept coming back to Doctrine and Covenants Chapter 9, verse 8:

But, behold, I say unto you, that you must study it out in your mind; then you must ask me if it be right, and if it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right.

Before anything else, the Lord tells us that we must study. Thought goes hand-in-hand with feeling, and for my part, I actually think it is superior to what I feel in my heart. I suspect everyone is a bit different, but I also suspect that more often than not, people forget about the brain.

Let's look at Nephi, one of the greatest prophets in the Latter-day Saint canon. He is associated with everything good and right; his older brothers Laman and Lemuel are associated with almost everything bad and wrong. They complain, they ridicule, they physically abuse, and they attempt to kill their brother on multiple occasions. In any given Sunday School class, you'll hear that Nephi was simply better than his brothers. He listened to the Spirit and followed promptings more than his brothers. And you might walk away from class thinking that Nature was too strong in Laman and Lemuel. That at his core, Nephi was––to quote "Sleepless in Seattle"––"younger and purer and more in touch with cosmic forces."

This couldn't be further from the truth. In The Book of Mormon, we read that Nephi pored over The Bible. He asked questions of his father and of the Lord, and he pondered the answers. We know that he quoted scripture with ease and gave detailed accounts of Biblical peoples. And in addition to his knowledge of spiritual things, we can assume he had a vast knowledge of secular subjects as well. Daryl pointed out to me this afternoon that when Nephi was commanded to construct a ship, he asked, "Lord, whither shall I go that I may find ore to molten, that I may make tools to construct the ship after the manner which though hast shown unto me?" (1 Nephi 17:9) If the Lord commanded me to construct a ship, I would've needed him to show me everything, but Nephi didn't need that. He already knew how to get started.

The Spirit of the Lord can't work with nothing. That's why we are supposed to provide the materials. We do that by reading a LOT and by talking to others and listening to others and being knowledgeable about the world around us. We have to stuff our minds with all the knowledge available to us, so the Spirit has something to work with. There may be times when a prompting comes out of nowhere, but I suspect those promptings are few and far between.

Finally, I'll say this: I think it's nearly impossible to separate the head and the heart. Feelings are usually accompanied by thoughts and vice versa. In regard to revelation, this head-and-heart duo is particularly effective at leading us to action. To dismiss one and embrace the other is an imbalance that will keep us from progressing over time.

Thing I'm thankful for: a husband to bounce ideas around with

*Members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints believe that God continues to reveal many great and important things to people, including the president of the Church and common individuals. We believe he speaks to us through the Holy Spirit.