Segullah » change

This was not in the brochure

Dalene — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 13:40:45 +0000

The other day I was wandering the aisles of Costco somewhat aimlessly when all of a sudden I was stopped in my tracks. I looked before me and saw something I’d seen a dozen times, but never quite in the same way. Instead of just seeing the moment simply for what it was, I saw it in the context of my entire life–past, present and future. And it hit me like a ton of bricks.

This is what I saw:

You have to understand, we are not cat people. I was born and raised to loathe cats. I am genetically programmed to loathe cats. Cats make my skin crawl. They induce me to itch and sneeze and cough in their presence. In fact, not even their presence is required. My eyes will swell and itch and water excessively if I even walk into a room where a cat has been.

I cannot abide cats.

And yet there I was in Costco buying cat food.

Bulk cat food.

It’s a long and somewhat amusing story, yet I am now the proud owner of not one, but two cats. We’ve had them for about four years. They are outside cats; but they do come indoors occasionally. One sneaks in. The other asks for permission and leaves when he ask him. And not only do I provide food for them, I have even dished out my hard-earned cash to the tune of nearly $300 in vet bills in order to care for them properly. I talk to them. I call them by name. I scratch them under their respective chins and along their respective bellies. And sometimes, if I have to wash that shirt anyway, I have been known to pick up my favorite and snuggle him to my chest. Just not too close to the face.

I love my cats.

So what stopped me in my tracks that day at Costco? Simply the realization that never in a million years would I have seen myself walking down the aisles of Costco with a bag of cat food in my cart. If you would have told me 30, 20 or even 5 years ago I would one day spend even one penny on cat food, I would have bet you a million dollars (or maybe even ten) that such a thing would NEVER happen.

In that tiny moment I left Costco and travelled back to my past, back to a much younger me who was looking at the older me standing there in Costco with cat food in her cart. Younger me was shocked. I jumped back to present me and thought about how as little girls, young women, young adults, and even as grown women, we have so many ideas about what our future will–or in this case would never–bring. And oh how drastically–or not–the realities of our lives can differ from our imagined course. In many ways, of course. But sometimes in such a way we come to embrace something we once loathed.

What about you? Has your life turned out exactly–or even remotely–as you planned? If yes, how so? If not, what has been the greatest surprise? Are the differences for better or for worse? Most importantly, how have you made the best of what life has thrown your way?

A Matter of Perspective

Kellie — Wed, 25 May 2011 06:13:40 +0000

This week, I spent nearly a full day by Mum’s bedside in hospital. Her pain was neon intense, as unstoppable as a meteor, and anxiety framed her face more starkly than her sweat slick hair and oxygen tubing. At one point just before her CT scan she gripped my arm so tightly my hand turned purple, pulling me in, close enough that her tears scurried across to explore my face.

“I don’t feel right. It all feels so wrong. So wrong. What’s happening? Please, Kel. Don’t leave me!”

I pulled back a little, so she could see my face and read what I was saying amongst the staccato commands and jargon heavy language of the packed room.

“Mum, it’s the drugs.” She desperately shook her head in denial, wiping away more tears to see me continue. “Mum, I know it doesn’t make sense, but it’s the drugs they’ve given you. The way you feel, how your head feels, it’s normal-“

“- it CAN’T be normal!”

“It IS normal, a known, expected reaction, I promise.”

From somewhere under my arm the doctor agreed “Yes, it’s totally normal!” but Mum’s panicked eyes didn’t waver from my face.

“It’s okay Mum. Trust me.”

It’s all about perspective.

*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*

Perspective is fickle. It never stays conveniently still, like a statue or a mountain, but is more like the shadow gliding across the Sphinx’s face or the tumbling of rocks down a hidden gully. Perspective changes in dribs and drabs or a drenching. Perspective doesn’t seem inclined to give a warning with a polite pause or discreet cough, instead cheerfully announcing that not only has it stolen your previous view of the world, but it’s now going to toss you into unexpected, befuddling places and then it leaves you there, gaping, without a map or your wallet. Perspective is life’s enthusiastic, bewildering tour guide, ensuring you will never see the same thing, the same way, ever again.

*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*

Perspective changed repeatedly at the hospital. “She’s deaf” I’d say to the nurses, who would then move closer and let Mum hear their faces. “She’s a second year nursing student” Mum would gasp out in new corridors and treatment rooms, and the medical discussions would swirl and expand to include me, dressed peacock style in fluorescent, high visibility work wear and steel cap boots amid their pastel blues. Where, two years ago, I would have been upset and confused at the chaos and suffering Mum went through, I now understand the theory, the rationale behind the actions and can easily, confidently say “It’s okay Mum. Trust me.”

Only to have my own perspectives readjust when I realise that Mum – still twisted and haunted with anxiety – has relaxed as much as the pain allows. Relaxed not because of the encouragement or drug infusions given by the eminently more qualified and involved medical professionals caring for her, but because of the depth of confidence she has in me, and her absolute acceptance of my proffered “Trust me.”

*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*

When I left Mum that night, she was almost fast asleep. Her eyes were puffy and red, exhausted from trying to watch so many conversations and catch hundreds of questions. Or maybe they were irritated from the heavy hitting pain killers and oxygen mask. Perhaps her eyelids were swelling to protect her from the harsh hospital lighting, giving her dreams a little shade to rest in. Maybe the answer is all of the above.

I think it’s all about perspective.

Has your perception about anything changed lately? What areas do you have more or less perspective about? Are there people you trust enough to believe, when your own perspective seems at odds with the world?

Advanced warning system

Annie — Thu, 11 Nov 2010 08:00:23 +0000

When I look back at pivotal events in my life, I am often retrospectively aware of the blessings of advanced warning, little nudges from a loving God who knows I do not handle surprise well. This happened recently when my husband and I both had promptings in advance of his eventual call as bishop. I guess I function better once the shock has mellowed, when I can respond graciously rather than from a place of fight-or-flight. This was never more true than the time I proposed marriage to myself, giving new meaning to if you are prepared ye shall not fear. True story:

. . .

I had been dating G for fifteen months and, at the time, we lived two hours apart while attending different universities. We joked about our feast-or-famine dating. No big deal. But the cold aching gnaw below my heart was telling me differently: I felt increasingly bereft at every departure and that wasn’t good for my plans. Not good at all.

Love…marriage…all of this was scheduled much later in my life plan, certainly after college graduation. We had talked about how we would wait for any serious plans, despite the increasing undercurrent of certainty about the fact that we would share a future, eventually. Some day. When we were older and had more of our career paths set. When the grad school we both planned was finished. That was beginning to feel really very distant, the feasts too infrequent, the famines too…famine-y.

When G arrived the next Saturday night for our weekly visit we booked a table to eat at our favorite spot. But this night the feasting failed. Halfway through dinner, G seemed distracted, blankly nodding with a glazed look. Finally he admitted to feeling a little sick. “Maybe the flu,” he said, so I took him back to my apartment for a place to recover. An hour later he was still ill so I ran out for some medicine. The night crawled on until I convinced him off of the sick-couch and took him home to his friend’s apartment where he was crashing for the night.

I dropped him off and as he left the car he promised to see me tomorrow. “Don’t forget to lock the car, okay?” These words rang in my ears as I drove back to my place. Don’t forget to lock the avocado green 1971 Toyota Corolla station wagon? Does it even lock? I had never seen him lock it before.

Once back in my parking lot, one glance in the back seat told me that G had forgotten his duffel bag. Poor guy, first he gets the stomach flu and now he doesn’t even have his things for the night. I grabbed the bag and hefted it up to my lap. The contents clinked unexpectedly and I worried I had broken something. Expecting to find a razor or a towel or books or clothes, I unzipped the turquoise duffel bag and flailed my hand through the dark opening.

My hand brushed goblet-shaped glass and the velvet covering of a small box. Curious, I clutched the box and brought it out into the field of the lone streetlight. In my hand was a light blue jewelry box, much like one…an…engagement… My mind choked on the thought.

Should I open it? [pause] Yes.

Slowly I creaked open the box to reveal two gold rings nestled in the furrow, one bearing a diamond. Frantically, my heart started beating faster and my mind protested: I thought we had already decided to wait…oh no…I can’t believe this…how can I turn him down gently…or do I want to…does the ring even fit?

Should I try it on? [pause] Um, yeah.

I tugged the ring from the anchor and slipped it over the knuckles of my left ring finger. A little snug but it fits. I’ll get used to it.

I spent the whole night wrapping my mind around this turn of events. With dawn came first the knowledge that I would say yes and, close behind, the thought: I’ll bet I’m the first one in history to propose to herself.

Later, I said yes in person but this gift of advanced warning contained my true moment of consent. The ability to catch up with the moment was more essential to our successful union than any kneeling proposal or golden ring.

. . .

Thanks for indulging my storytelling. Now it’s your turn. How do you feel about surprises? Looking back, can you see times when you were prepared for coming changes? Do share.

Jumping Into Change… or Not

Kellie — Wed, 27 Oct 2010 20:28:21 +0000

For some time now, I’ve known that change is coming. I’ve been told in prayer, in conference talks, in myriad different ways that life is going to change, yet – once again – I was standing without any defining details or factual flares to light my path. Then, in the course of a week, the Lord made it plain that the change was much closer than I’d thought. And it involved dating. Potential emotional connections. And wandering far, far outside my comfort zone.

So, out of habit and panic, I’m fighting it. But I’m kicking fog, trying to land a punch on something solid, concrete, a definite that is still far beyond my horizon. I know I’m being petty, bratty, petulant. The fact is, I’m tired.

I am tired of being always expected required to change. How much dross can one person burn away before the teeny drop of precious metal is extracted, let alone refined? I don’t feel refined. I’m feeling stretched, torn, pummeled and I’m worried that I’ll lose my pliability and one day just snap into nothingness. That I won’t be able to survive the constant changes demanded encouraged of me.

Actually, I’m not tired. Truth is, I don’t want to change. I don’t want to hurt, or be scared ever, ever again. I’m feeling like I’ve been told I’m going on a trip. But I know none of the details. Where to get the tickets, what visas I need, when the flight leaves, do I need any shots? How do I prepare for something I know nothing about?

I don’t know. I know that I will settle down inside my own head, eventually, and do what I need to do. It’s a coping process I’ve used over the past two years of separation and divorce. I’ve been told – and know – I just need to make sure I’m in a place within myself that I can hear, recognise and act on any promptings from the Holy Ghost, and just go from there.

But “there” means ripping myself open, and letting the air, sunshine and thunderstorms in. It means letting go, yet again, of my safe hopes, my pretend dreams and tiny, tentative plans and jumping off the abyss into the foggy unknown. Jumping means tangled parachute cords, and rocky outcroppings, of having no balance or knowledge of where the ground waits to kiss me hello.

How do I prepare for the promise of falling up into daylight?

Does potential happiness scare you? What struggles have you had to accept promptings or revelation? How do you prepare for change?

I Can See Clearly – About YOUR Life

Kellie — Wed, 22 Sep 2010 06:10:48 +0000

This past weekend, I had the pleasure of spending three whole days with my best mate Tasha. We were both free of parental duties for the duration, and planned in advance what we were going to do: whatever we wanted, whenever the whim whacked us to do so. While she was here, we managed to eat an incredible amount of (sensational) chocolate, watched (multiple) movies, ate out at several restaurants (without children!), talked practically non-stop (with the exceptions of the previous points) and very nearly laughed our faces off.

On the last night the wet-season’s first tropical storm rolled in and as we listened to the rain lullaby the night, our conversation yet again returned to what was concerning us in our own lives, and how it could all possibly be resolved. The rain drummed harder, the air slowly cooled, and the answers became clearer.

Just not to ourselves.

Tasha is one of the women of grace that Michelle posted about, and would be the first to laughingly tell you that she most certainly is not. She is loyal, passionate, faithful and obedient to the Lord. She listens for and follows the Spirit, even if it takes a year (or more) for the initial prompting to bear obvious, visible fruit. Her whole life is a testament to her faith, her determination, her character and commitment to what she knows is right, true and important. Seeing that – knowing that – about her, I can see that the change that is occurring in her life will of course go well. It’s what the Lord has prepared her for, is the culmination of following the Holy Ghost and counsel – how could it not go astonishingly well?

She cannot see it, even though it’s blindingly obvious to me. Oddly enough, she believes the same about my future. As we lay under the fan, frogs cheering on the rain, her confidence in my future slowly seeped into my thoughts, quietly – irresistibly – drowning some of my own doubts and fears. The faith we have in the Lord to look after the other is as soaking as the monsoon, an abundance which helps us survive the deserts we’ve wandered in, floating us a little closer to being able to grab with both hands what we both have been hoping for, waiting for, for such a long, difficult time – dreamed of change that is so tantalising, achingly close.

Do you have more confidence in or about a close friend’s life than your own? Do you believe your friends when they are positive about what your future may hold? What blessings – physical, emotional, spiritual, culinary, social, or mental – have you unexpectedly received from having close friendships? Do you have the type of friendships you long for?

The Secret Life of Cole’s Mommy

Guest — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 12:53:03 +0000

We’re happy to tell you that we’ve managed to sneak in one last UP CLOSE motherhood post by Eliana Osborn. Eliana worships the sun in the desert southwest. She spends her days teaching her two young Jedi masters to only use the force for good, as well as at Arizona Western College. She has published in Budget Travel magazine and Literary Mama, with upcoming work in The Friend and San Diego Family Magazine.

“Right this way folks, circle around the Picasso on the left.”

I’m surrounded by a group of tourists holding museum brochures and looking anxiously up at the large painting of a blue man mournfully playing his guitar. The cold Chicago wind is far away from our entourage deep inside the Art Institute.

“As you can see, this is from the Blue period. Can anyone tell me how this is different from his later works?”

A sudden crash brings me back to the family room, where I’m building the world’s largest two-car garage out of nothing more than wooden blocks.

“The dinosaur got it, Mommy! Do it again!”

The hours of the day spread before me, endless repetitions of songs and books and ball throwing. I start to stack blocks again, this time with a plan: I’ll only use the triangle ones. My son is enchanted by patterns and it’s as though I have invented a whole new style of architecture.

The sand is blowing, scorching my face. I wipe a slow moving drop of sweat from between my breasts and try to focus on what is before me. Something is coming into focus after hours of careful excavation. I’m just using my horsehair brush now, sweeping the last bits of dirt away. The hieroglyphics are carved into the top of the casket. I take a quick photo before trying to decipher the message. We’ve been searching the area for months, looking for more than a few pottery shards. I call for my assistant, who scurries over, loudly popping gum. When she sees the massive find in front of me, her mouth drops open and stays that way. Though most of the color has faded, bits of lapis and ochre stand out in contrast to the beige everything.

Feeling the engraved text with my finger, I begin to translate each glyph aloud.

“Mama! You didn’t say it right. You skipped a page.” Cole’s entreaties bring me back to the family room, where we’re sitting on the couch, reading about a monkey with endless curiosity. It is hot; the air conditioning hasn’t turned on. Or maybe I’m sweating because this little person is less than an inch away from me.

We start the book again. George begins his adventure on a ship while we’re stuck here looking at the pictures of it. I glance at my son’s face while turning the page—he’s gleefully unaware of my boredom, caught up wondering what will come next for his furry little friend. With a deep breath I smile and make a suitably serious voice for The Man in the Yellow Hat.

Cole’s down for his nap without a fuss and I pop some taquitos into the toaster oven. I flip through the latest Newsweek at the dining room table while I wait.

“Up next, women’s uneven bars.”

My hands are moist as I rub chalk on them and try to ignore the flashing cameras all around the stadium. Coach slaps me on the back with a last, “Be sure to stick your landing,” and then it is my turn. In my red, white, and blue leotard I throw my shoulders back, run, and leap up to grab the high bar. The crowd goes wild–if I do well, Team America will snatch the gold medal from the Chinese.

Spinning and snapping, I am back and forth, legs and arms switching places in an endless series of twists and turns. This is it! I nailed it! Not a single mistake. I spin around one last time before dismounting, and leap.

Smack, my butt hits the floor. The oven timer sounds and I look around confused. This is not a stadium. This is my dining room. I did not botch my landing; I just fell off my chair.

It’s not every day I fantasize about alternate lives. Some days it is constant, especially when my toddler is feeling needy. Apparently, growing up is harsher than it looks and he needs periodic comfort. As we sit, endlessly sit, with him on my lap and nothing but soothing sounds needed from me, my mind wanders. Not to laundry or groceries or even my unfinished library books.

In the quiet moments of sameness I transcend everything I actually know. I don’t imagine different selves, I become them. Better than a movie or book, my daydreams encompass me, however briefly. Perhaps I have an overactive imagination or am struggling with the change of pace that being a stay-at-home mom entails. But I think my active dream world is a bit more. It is the way I balance the many sides of myself. And for now, at least, it’s working.

The Space for Change

Leslie — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 11:00:12 +0000

Systems are resistant to change.

This is one of the fundamental principles of systems theory (a paradigm for looking at people’s lives). Our lives are intricate webs of relationships and forces – home, church, school, community, family, friends. A shift in one area, relationship, or routine sends ripples across the whole system. So in essence the system tries to maintain it’s balance because negotiating a new normal requires a lot of energy and resources.

Basically everything around us enforces the status quo. It begs to be static.
It’s why bad patterns cycle over and over again. It’s why relationships stay dysfunctional. It’s why although people express a desire for change, it often never materializes. It’s why we set the same new year’s resolutions every year.

It is a lot of work to change.

One thing I loved about having a dad in the military was moving. There was something good in wiping the slate clean every 3 years or so. Sure it was a lot of work to make new friends. But part of me loved getting to reinvent myself – to leave behind the parts I didn’t like and move somewhere a different person.

I was very shy as a child. But as I reached my jr high years, I really didn’t like being shy. I wanted to be the fun outgoing type. The trouble was it was too hard to make some radical change in a place where everyone had expectations of me. I felt like everyone would notice and that attention would only add awkwardness to my attempts at behavior that felt unnatural. When we moved to Colorado just before I started high school, I decided to leave the shy part of me behind. It was hard, my instinct was to be reserved, to be quiet, to not spontaneously start conversations with people I didn’t know really well. Still, I was determined. I wrote in my journal and graded myself on various behaviors trying to force an awareness of where I was and where I wanted to be. Somehow I managed to pull off a fairly radical personality change. The new environment reinforced my the new identity. It didn’t expect me to be shy, it only knew the new me, so it became natural to continue. As I looked back years later, I saw how powerful that experience made me feel – how meaningful it was to decide upon change and make it happen. Above all I was grateful for the space to change.

Lately, I have been thinking about change and growth and how it relates to ourselves, our friendships, our families.

Do I give others space for change or do I have my expectations already pre-set? Do I rely on old experiences, bad first impressions, past wrongs? Do I assign people to their pigeon holes too quickly and irrevocably. It’s easy to become jaded, to rely on predictions, set up prophecies ,and expectations waiting to be fulfilled. I need to let go of those strings holding people taut, in place, and instead replace it with slack. I need to issue invitations for change, to just make space.

Are there things you’d like to change? In what ways do you feel the tension of status quo holding you back from change? Have you been able to create successful change experiences for yourself? Do you see these forces at work on others? How do you give others the space for change?

Plants and Productivity

Catherine — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 11:00:32 +0000

“If unmistakable personal revelation comes that we need to move from Massachusetts to Arizona, I’ll do it,” I told my husband five and a half years ago. Well, the revelation came and so did we. I began the slow process of planting roots here in the heat of the desert.

That first spring, I also began the literal planting of my small garden plot. But, like me, the tomatoes and peppers I planted seemed to barely survive that first long summer. In the fall (and I use that term loosely!), I pulled up my plants with discouragement, and decided to try again the next spring. Once again, the plants slugged through that second summer, barely producing much for my efforts. But that fall found me too busy to pull up the plants, so they stayed in the clay soil, and to my amazement, come Thanksgiving, they were overflowing.

Those same plants are still growing in my garden, three years later. They aren’t the prettiest looking, and in some seasons, they sit dormant, looking half-dead, but I know now that if I wait a while, give them some time and some water, they’ll produce again.

I’ve been thinking of the plants lately as I’ve both struggled and loved the last 4 months with a new baby in the house. Most days I am like those plants in the summer—not the prettiest looking and definitely not the most “productive.” I am trying to have patience that my fruitful days will return.

Tell me a little about the different seasons of your life, the different kinds of productivity, and the ebb and flow of productivity in your life. What helps you have patience with the challenges of different seasons?

A new crown, no prospects of royalty and today’s a new day

Jenny Whitcomb — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 13:00:58 +0000

Yesterday I sat in the dentist chair with the drill humming in the background and I made a resolve NEVER to eat sugar again. I promised myself that I’ll floss everyday. I swear I’ll be more vigilant with my kids’ teeth so that they don’t have to endure agony in the chair. I carried home extra toothbrushes and packs of mini floss to put on the dinner table, planning to have the dental hygiene talk. I’ll tell my children that it’s hard enough to stay on top of regular bills, without adding the dentist’s car payment to the list.

It’s not the first time I’ve made these promises. And they happen elsewhere, too. When I face the doctor at my yearly physical, I promise myself that I will be better at exercising. When we sit down to examine our expenses, I tell myself that I will be better at sticking to a budget. When I reflect on my temple attendance, I vow to do better.

As I reflect on the pattern of promises in my life, I need to know where to file them. Under what category do these hasty resolutions fall? I’m leaning towards repentance. It’s a beautiful and comfortable concept. It’s one of the principles of the gospel that involves much more than acknowledging our wrongdoings (like brushing my teeth while sucking on an atomic fireball and thinking how clever I am). The church website says repentance “is a change of mind and heart that gives us a fresh view about God, about ourselves, and about the world. It includes turning … to God for forgiveness. It is motivated by … the sincere desire to obey [God’s] commandments.”

I don’t remember a commandment about brushing and flossing. But I do remember the summer I had to walk a mile to the dentist office each morning to brush my teeth. I was somewhere around age ten, and answered “yes” when the dentist asked me if I brushed and flossed everyday. That was the cleaning appointment where I scored 13 cavities. My mother asked the dentist if it would be alright with him if I walked to his office everyday, so I could show him outwardly, my inward commitment to caring for my choppers. Lucky for me, my brother didn’t do a whole lot better, so we were walking partners during the dental summer of ’75.

I suppose that having stewardship for our bodies means taking care of our teeth is pleasing to God. I’m grateful for my teeth. And second chances. And time to reflect, and learn from the past. So today, I choose to be thankful for the desire to improve. And for repentance. And for my dentist. And I promise not to kick myself when I’m down. Because the realist in me knows that the sugar thing probably won’t last much past the pie on the buffet tomorrow.

What hasty promises have escaped your lips? Are you as familiar with your dentist as I am with mine? Isn’t it refreshing to be able to apply gospel principles to things like dental floss? What are you grateful for today?

“… but if ye are prepared…”

Frances — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 18:49:53 +0000

To give a little context for the story I am about to tell, I would like to set the stage with some background information, as well as one statement of absolute fact.

Fact first.

I hate lessons on preparedness. I hate Family Home Evening or Enrichment activities that involve putting together survival kits of any kind. My food storage is a box of fruit snacks in the bottom drawer of my desk at work, and a few stray Skittles in my purse. I would rather use the extra space in my house for shoes than for enough water to last through the Apocalypse. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but knowing I shouldn’t makes me feel this way even more. This is a fact.

And now, some background.

About a month ago, I decided to move to Washington, D.C. I knew in my heart of hearts, that place where you know things are true even when you don’t want them to be, that it was time for me to leave my (wonderful, by the way) life in Salt Lake and try something new. (As it happens, that was also a fact. What a truth-teller I am!)

I also knew in my heart of hearts that this uprooting and leaving behind and starting over was going to be hard. Really hard. Cry all the way from Cheyenne to Denver hard. And I was scared.

And now, the story.

A couple weeks before I packed my life into the back of my car and drove away from Zion (open cheek, insert tongue), I took a trip to Turkey. You know, nothing like an international vacation to take the edge off a cross-country move. (Maybe if I paid more heed to preparedness this sort of thing wouldn’t happen to me, but we’re not going there.) Despite the call of beautiful mosques, warm beaches and endless kebabs, the only thing I could really think about was this: Could I do it? On my own? Was I ready to start over? On my own? Would I survive? Alone?

(Also I was thinking: Is it too late to just change my mind and bag the whole thing?)

This is what I thought as my flight took off for Paris. Only my flight didn’t go to Paris. Not right away, at least. Instead we were diverted to Montreal due to a medical emergency on board. (It was a good one, too. Seizure! Cardiac arrest! Large group of doctors on board en route to medical volunteer mission in Romania! Life saving procedures performed!) The good news was, we all got extra snacks for our trouble. The bad news was, the delay caused me to miss my Parisian rendezvous with my travel companion, who was flying in from another city, and I was now faced with the prospect of arriving in Istanbul alone. In the middle of the night. Alone.

The only thing I could really think about was this: Could I do it? On my own? Was I ready to go forward? On my own? Would I survive? Alone?

(Also I was thinking: Is it too late to just change my mind and bag the whole thing?)

And then, quite suddenly, I had one of those “enlighten your understanding” experiences.

First, this scripture came into my mind: “… but if ye are prepared ye shall not fear.”

Second, I realized that this small challenge was preparing me for the bigger challenge that loomed ahead. If I could survive one difficult thing on my own, I could survive another.

Third, I came to understand that this call to be prepared is not an arbitrary directive designed to fill basements with wheat and hearts with guilt, nor is it simply a commandment we are responsible for carrying out alone. Beyond all that, it is a covenant and promise from a loving Heavenly Father who wants nothing more than to see us overcome and succeed.

As we prepare ourselves, the Spirit whispered, the Lord goes about quietly preparing us as well, preparing us for those things we cannot see and those things we believe we cannot bear.

We shall not fear because our ultimate preparation is in the hands of God.

I made it to Istanbul safely. On my own. I made it to Washington, D.C. safely. On my own. I made it because I wasn’t really on my own at all.

As for my food storage. Well. One thing at a time, my friends. One thing at a time.