Recently I posted about being
afraid to share my testimony when it wasn't something I was
fully confident in. I mentioned that I felt like I was
trying to run when I had just
learned to walk, and was too
unsteady to accomplish such a
heavy task.
Since then, I've received my
patriarichal blessing and in it it mentions
two different times that I need to not
let my past keep me from
teaching others and keep my from
sharing with others.
That got me
thinking.
...and I've been thinking
a lot ever
since then.
My
belief about the church is what it is because of some
awesome people in my life. These people are people who
weren't afraid to share their stories and
weren't afraid to be themselves. Often,
in any religion, you find the ones who try to
portray their perfect
christ-like attributes. That's
not always how a person is
all the time. In fact,
my testimony grew and
continues to grow more for those people who are
imperfect. I learn from those who
struggle, those with
trials, those with a
past that is
like me.
I was inspired by my
high school seminary teacher who used to
drink alcohol and smoke
cigarrettes. I was inspired by a friend who tells
"off color" jokes in class and makes
everyone laugh. I was inspired by a boy who
struggled with addiction his entire life.
It's
these people and it's
their stories that let me know the
church is a safe place to be. After hearing where
they have been and
what they have done, I felt more
accepted into the church. I felt more
invited and I felt like I
belonged. I am
not a perfect saint. I don't always remember to
say my prayers and I don't always
understand my scriptures. I don't know all the
answers in Sunday school and I can't tell you how all
the stories in the bible end.
But I can tell you that I'm
getting better.
...
every single day.
And I hope that I can
inspire someone,
anyone, to do the same.
Maybe,
for that person, getting better
isn't through the church. Maybe getting better
doesn't have to mean
quitting drinking. Maybe it just means
being a better person, a better
mother, a better
friend, a better
wife...
However that may be.
Here is my most favorite poem
of all time. And I cry
every single time I read it. ...but it
makes me want to be better.
Always.
Whenever I start to hang my head in front of failure’s face,
my downward fall is broken by the memory of a race.
A children’s race, young boys, young men; how I remember well,
excitement sure, but also fear, it wasn’t hard to tell.
They all lined up so full of hope, each thought to win that race
or tie for first, or if not that, at least take second place.
Their parents watched from off the side, each cheering for their son,
and each boy hoped to show his folks that he would be the one.
The whistle blew and off they flew, like chariots of fire,
to win, to be the hero there, was each young boy’s desire.
One boy in particular, whose dad was in the crowd,
was running in the lead and thought “My dad will be so proud.”
But as he speeded down the field and crossed a shallow dip,
the little boy who thought he’d win, lost his step and slipped.
Trying hard to catch himself, his arms flew everyplace,
and midst the laughter of the crowd he fell flat on his face.
As he fell, his hope fell too; he couldn’t win it now.
Humiliated, he just wished to disappear somehow.
But as he fell his dad stood up and showed his anxious face,
which to the boy so clearly said, “Get up and win that race!”
He quickly rose, no damage done, behind a bit that’s all,
and ran with all his mind and might to make up for his fall.
So anxious to restore himself, to catch up and to win,
his mind went faster than his legs. He slipped and fell again.
He wished that he had quit before with only one disgrace.
“I’m hopeless as a runner now, I shouldn’t try to race.”
But through the laughing crowd he searched and found his father’s face
with a steady look that said again, “Get up and win that race!”
So he jumped up to try again, ten yards behind the last.
“If I’m to gain those yards,” he thought, “I’ve got to run real fast!”
Exceeding everything he had, he regained eight, then ten...
but trying hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell again.
Defeat! He lay there silently. A tear dropped from his eye.
“There’s no sense running anymore! Three strikes I’m out! Why try?
I’ve lost, so what’s the use?” he thought. “I’ll live with my disgrace.”
But then he thought about his dad, who soon he’d have to face.
“Get up,” an echo sounded low, “you haven’t lost at all,
for all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.
Get up!” the echo urged him on, “Get up and take your place!
You were not meant for failure here! Get up and win that race!”
So, up he rose to run once more, refusing to forfeit,
and he resolved that win or lose, at least he wouldn’t quit.
So far behind the others now, the most he’d ever been,
still he gave it all he had and ran like he could win.
Three times he’d fallen stumbling, three times he rose again.
Too far behind to hope to win, he still ran to the end.
They cheered another boy who crossed and won first place,
head high and proud and happy -- no falling, no disgrace.
But, when the fallen boy crossed the line, in last place,
the crowd gave him a greater cheer for finishing the race.
And even though he came in last with head bowed low, unproud,
you would have thought he’d won the race, to listen to the crowd.
And to his dad he sadly said, “I didn’t do so well.”
“To me, you won,” his father said. “You rose each time you fell.”
