Agency was our First Great Gift. What a bittersweet gift for our Heavenly Father to give. He loved us enough to let us choose his way, but...oh, how we've gone astray, each one of us. It must have hurt-- being hurt. Before we came to earth we said we would. We said we'd come back to Him. Many haven't. Many won't.
The Atonement was our Greatest Gift. What a sacrifice-- the Father sending his son to earth. Perhaps he watched his son step along the clouds of glory leaving footsteps of power and perfection. Once again, bittersweet. So very happy that we would all be saved. But with so much sorrow to know how perfectly he (His son) would suffer. How long? How agonizing? For us-- incomprehensible. But he knew about the blood from every pore. he knew about the betrayal and the whip and the cross. The thorns and the spit...and the death.
But that's just it. He knew. He counted his will as naught and said thy will o Lord be done. Then resurrected, the work was done. It will last forever and for all.
I have hope because of my faith. He will come. I will live. We will all live.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Words
Sometimes, Satan gets to me without me knowing:
"Saturday January 9th
I'm ugly. That's what I feel like. It's not what I tell myself but it's what twists around inside of me. I see everyone else as complete, beautiful, they-know-who-they-are--just well put together.
I'm such a wreck. Up and down. Decide. Indecisive. Wear this. Wear that.
I confuse myself. I'm not sure how my gears work, what I want, or why I care about how other people see me.
I lack confidence. I despise every nasty symptom that comes with that."
Did you count how many times I said "I"?
The next morning was Sunday. This is what I wrote after I had read my scriptures:
"Sunday, January 10th
Last night, as I was trying to put my thoughts into words-- digging for the best adjectives and the perfect emotion to describe that darkness-- I think Satan got in. He gave me words, sure he did, but he made me feel even worse. He helped me brainstorm perfectly awful thoughts, pushing me deeper.
He's tricky, but I still can't believe I fell for it."
This fluctuation is a product of constant self-concern. I need to watch how many times I say "I" in a day.
"Saturday January 9th
I'm ugly. That's what I feel like. It's not what I tell myself but it's what twists around inside of me. I see everyone else as complete, beautiful, they-know-who-they-are--just well put together.
I'm such a wreck. Up and down. Decide. Indecisive. Wear this. Wear that.
I confuse myself. I'm not sure how my gears work, what I want, or why I care about how other people see me.
I lack confidence. I despise every nasty symptom that comes with that."
Did you count how many times I said "I"?
The next morning was Sunday. This is what I wrote after I had read my scriptures:
"Sunday, January 10th
Last night, as I was trying to put my thoughts into words-- digging for the best adjectives and the perfect emotion to describe that darkness-- I think Satan got in. He gave me words, sure he did, but he made me feel even worse. He helped me brainstorm perfectly awful thoughts, pushing me deeper.
He's tricky, but I still can't believe I fell for it."
This fluctuation is a product of constant self-concern. I need to watch how many times I say "I" in a day.
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