Have you ever had a “What in the world am I doing here?” moment in your life? That is exactly what I was asking myself this past summer, as some unusual circumstances led to my employment based in small-town Vernal, Utah. In order to raise money for tuition and school expenses, I was able to acquire a job as a foreman for a construction company in this little Eastern Utah town. Vernal is a land owned by oil companies who offer big wages for simple but physically exhausting work. As a result, the town and surrounding country are filled with some very unique characters. Often times I would wonder if I was working or watching a wrestling match.
At any rate, I would spend anywhere from ten to twelve hours a day in Central Utah Indian territory, often times being hired out by these oil companies that are currently exploring for oil with their gargantuan oil drills. I would usually leave in a truck with some coworkers, among whom I was the sole English speaker and translator, and we would drive out into the desert to our job location. When we got there, our assigned workload would usually consist picking up garbage and digging holes. This occasion was different. The Company Man had us help by emptying a dizzying amount of hundred pound mud-mix bags into his oil drill. I do not mind heavy lifting, as I appreciate the mild soreness of growing muscles afterwards, and I do not mind getting a little dirty, but I do not like working on the oilrigs. Mainly, my hatred can be attributed to the fact that once your work is done on the oil rig, you are covered from head to toe in dust and muck. The suffering does not end there, as you also have the added blessing to be completely saturated with the smell of crude oil. The fragrance is a smell you are not likely to find over the cosmetics counter. Tuition does not pay itself, however. Our at least that is what I told myself as I climbed up muddy ladder and got to work.
After hefting a couple hundred of the mud bags, my duty as the English-speaking spokesman obligated me to seek for one of the regular rig workers so that we could get another pallet of mud-bags to empty. I waved down a worker and was greeted by a big, dirty, heavily tattooed rig-hand. I asked him if he could carry over the necessary pallet. He said sure, but countered that he had a question for me. I told him to go ahead. He then inquired, “You’re not a full-time roust-a-bout (oil field service worker) are you?” I answered, “Nope.” To which he replied, “I could tell.” I was a bit confused. I had already been working this job for months and was just as sunburned and covered with just as many nicks and cuts as anybody else. In order to clarify his deduction I inquired, “Why do you say that?” “You’re too clean,” was the only answer I received as he drove away.
I stood there for a moment, silently contemplating his meaning, as I looked over my dust and grime covered body. If I was anything at this moment, it certainly was not clean. Once I looked past the oily mud that was caked on my arms and body I realized something. My skin had a few nicks, scratches, and scars from previous job assignments but was untouched by ink and needle. When considering that my day was filled with overhearing language unsuitable for public circles, I recognized that none of those soiling words came from my lips. That is when I caught on to the true meaning of his statement. Though covered in the messiest kind of sludge and cuts, my disfigurement could not disguise my true character and principles.
Upon further reflection, I am reminded of a quote by Apostle James E. Talmage when he said:
It has been declared in the solemn word of revelation, that the spirit and the body constitute the soul of man; and, therefore, we should look upon this body as something that shall endure in the resurrected state, beyond the grave, something to be kept pure and holy. Be not afraid of soiling its hands; be not afraid of scars that may come to it if won in earnest effort, or [won] in honest fight, but beware of scars that disfigure, that have come to you in places where you ought not have gone, that have befallen you in unworthy undertakings [pursued where you ought not have been]; beware of the wounds of battles in which you have been fighting on the wrong side. [Talmage, CR, October 1913, p. 117]
Everyone in this mortal life will mark or stain their bodies. The question is will they be ennobling marks earned by hard work and sacrifice? Or disfiguring scars that come as a result of personal rebellion? Will you carry the dark stain of sin? Or allow the beauty of your character to become your polished gleam? These outward manifestations offer bystanders a glimpse, both past and present, of our lives and more importantly our characters.
More importantly, it is an interesting to ponder why we even bear these little marks on our bodies after some kind of trauma or adversity. What is the purpose behind them? In the Old Testament the Hebrew word for a designating mark or its action is “zkhr” or “zakhar.” This word has an additional definition as well. The alternate definition is “to remember.” The Lord gives us marks, whether received while doing good or ill, in order for us to remember how we received them. They are one of his most important teaching tools. By having reminders of our past, we can work faithfully towards the future. Marks can motivate us to repent, or they can also help us remember the sacrifices behind our testimonies.
I have felt the humiliation of the constant reminding of past transgressions that a physical blemish brings. When I was five years old some nearby neighbors bought the lot across the street from my house. The father of this family built a freestanding ten-foot half-pipe for his two teenage sons and their skating enjoyment. His sons were not the only ones who found a new toy. Most of the surrounding neighbor kids, many too young to ride or skate would equally utilize the new half-pipe by running up and down the crescent ramps in an attempt to reach the top, where one could stand as King of the World, for the entire neighborhood to see. While oblivious to any danger in our youth, our parents were a bit wiser and made us promise to stop playing on the half-pipe. In fact, it was always the last command we as children received when our parents would leave.
One spring night, my parents were departing for our Ward Temple Night. My younger brothers and I were all lying in front of the T.V. My parents kissed us their farewells and re-iterated that there was absolutely NO playing on the half-pipe. We, of course, agreed and watched them subsequently drive away. It was then that we did what any adventurous young children would do… run outside to play on the half-pipe! The other neighbor kids had already beaten us to it, but we were determined to reach the top before them. Up and down we went, until at last, my four brothers, two friends, and I were all standing at the top.
My childhood desire for adventure was not quite satisfied however, and I inched my way closer to the edge in order to witness the great height to which I had climbed. As I was staring off the edge, I did not take into account the fact that one of those neighborhood “friends” actually had a personal vendetta against me, and so she snuck up behind me, and unceremoniously pushed me off… resulting in a rather nasty broken arm upon my landing on the solid ground below me.
Needless to say, there was no way I could possibly hide my whereabouts and happenings that evening. My parents were informed after their temple session, and I spent the next couple of hours in a hospital. I wore a cast, like Hester’s scarlet letter, for the following six weeks.
While my story is full of childhood naivety, many of the scars people receive, whether through immorality, substance abuse, or other not-so-visible means, are equally damaging to the spirit and lives of their victims. Yet many times, as was evidenced in the first example in Vernal, our physical marks, while appearing esthetically ugly, can prove to be witnesses of a great testimony and sacrifice, ultimately resulting in becoming marks of nobility and beauty.
One of the best examples of this can be found in an account by Joseph Smith, when a drunken and angry mob abducted him from his bed late one night. He recounts that they burst through the door, grabbed and dragged him outside where after they beat him mercilessly. They halted their blows only so that they could spread tar all over his injured body, and even tried to force a spoonful of tar in his mouth. Joseph’s friends and loved ones spent the rest of the night scraping and prying the tar off of his body. Joseph Smith finished his story, by recalling that even after such a excruciatingly difficult night, that on the next day, being the Sabbath, and “with my flesh all scarified and defaced, I preached to the congregation as usual, and in the afternoon of the same day baptized three individuals” History of the Church, 1:261–65.
Most people would consider Joseph’s disfigurement repulsive, yet the fact that his burned and swollen flesh was earned in the defense of Truth and testimony transformed his marks into badges of honor. His scars were hallowed by the adversity he faced and suffered through while receiving them. Ultimately, the tokens of suffering served as reminders to us all about what possessing a steadfast testimony means.
Joseph’s marks are not the only ones that have great significance. On a small hill called Calvary, our Savior received the most important marks of all in his hands and feet. The cruel tips of Roman nails created one of the most important symbols and witnesses of our salvation. Upon his arrival to the Americas following his resurrection, Christ utilized his scars as a witness when he called unto the righteous survivors, “Arise and come forth unto me, that ye may thrust your hands into my side, and also that ye may feel the prints of the nails in my hands and in my feet, that ye may know that I am the God of Israel, and the God of the whole earth, and have been slain for the sins of the world” (3 Nephi 11:14).
Marks can be both physical and spiritual. While physical marks are easy for others to see, the marks burned deep in our hearts by the spirit can be even more powerful. These hidden tokens of faith offer us reminders of the past, and provide motivation for righteous living in the future. Many people have provided great examples in my life, and many have left invisible spiritual marks that have inspired me in my life.
As children, we often look for heroes and role models that we can strive to imitate. My biggest hero was my older brother Matthew. While it is not strange to look up to your older brother, Matt did not exactly fit the mold of model teenager. He often got himself into trouble. One of his most notorious episodes was getting suspended for a week in junior high because he put itching powder down a girl’s shirt, after which she broke out with a serious allergic reaction. This did not sit well with my parents as he was the eldest of five sons, and he was supposed to be supplying a good example. While definitely was not the worst son in the world, his repeated lapses and unsightly consequences routinely caused great tensions in our house. It eventually reached the point that my brother made a rash promise to move out the day after high school graduation.
My brother kept his promise, and he moved to Oregon to live with his best friend growing up. As he left he made sure we knew that he had made his escape. He lived in a broken down trailer and worked in a cigarette warehouse for a full year. We did not hear much from him, but we he returned he was completely changed. He did not raise his voice at my mom any more. He came home at a decent hour every night. Most of all, he decided to take a more serious interest in the lives of his little brothers.
We did not have a spare room for him anymore so my parents decided to have him share mine. During the following couple months, as he prepared for a mission, he told me a lot of his life experiences and mistakes and counseled with me not to do the same. We spent a lot of time just staring at the ceiling talking, me about my junior high experiences and interests, and him about his adventures in Oregon. Many times I would talk to him about the new grown up opportunities that I faced. He would listen and tell me about similar experiences he had had.
Those long nights and soft words by my older brother were permanently branded in my mind. The principles that he shared deeply influenced the attitudes and spiritual desires that I had for the rest of my teenage years.
While my experiences with my brother were unforgettable, the deepest grooves of my testimony were made by my faith in our Savior Jesus Christ. As a young inexperienced missionary, I found myself in charge of a struggling area with an even more inexperienced companion. The days were filled with a lot of prayers as I considered the day a success if one out of three people in our little Argentine town even understood what my companion and I were saying. Days of language practice and hard work did not seem to be helping our area progress. That is until we met the Martinez family…
In small roughly put together house by the river, Manuel and Martha Martinez struggled to provide for their three children. The house had a large thin blanket acting as a wall for two rooms, a living-dining-kitchen room in front and a single bedroom in the back. While not having many material goods, the family had a deep sense of unity. Manuel, however, always sensed that something was missing.
Our daily tracting efforts eventually led us to the Martinez’s riverside home. After several lessons and trips to church, the Martinez family was excited when we challenged them to get baptized. In order to fulfill this dream, the only lacking requirement was the marriage of Manuel and Martha. While making plans for the wedding one night, Manuel and Martha’s sad countenances were a glaring contrast to my companion’s and my enthusiasm. When we asked them what their doubt was, Manuel answered. “Since Martha and I are not married, we both receive individual poverty benefits from the government every month from our jobs. If we get married, we will lose one of those payments – it’s more than 400 pesos! We can barely eat in our current situation! We can’t give that up.”
My companion and I just sat with our mouths open. Speechless until we offered our assurances that the Lord takes care of his own. That faith comes before miracles. We all knew the right thing to do was to get baptized. Manuel and Martha, however, would not commit to it. So after many questions and pleadings, my companion and I at least succeed in committing them to have a heartfelt prayer to tell their Heavenly Father about their decision.
That night I held nothing back in my prayers to my Heavenly Father. The Martinez family had struggled through so much. I knew that fully embracing the gospel would allow them to receive all kinds of new blessings. My prayers were desperate pleadings for the Lord to give the Martinez’s courage and faith. I slept with a heavy heart as I anxiously waited for events to play out.
The next night we went back to the Martinez house to see how the parents’ prayers went. We sat down with the family, and after exchanging greetings and a prayer, we asked the parents about their prayer. Manuel blurted out, “We’re getting baptized!” Manuel and Martha’s eyes were completely aglow. We congratulated them as Manuel continued, “We just couldn’t find words to justify our actions to Heavenly Father. We’ve had so many lessons on faith, I guess this is what it is all about?” We eagerly agreed, and they were married at the end of the week.
Finally the day for their baptisms arrived. Ward members turned out in earnest in order to support them, as we tried to fit everyone in to the room with the font. A few minutes before the baptism started, Manuel asked if he could talk to me alone. A sudden sense of dread snaked its way into my heart. We went into a classroom, and I asked Manuel if something was wrong. “Let me explain,” he said. “I went into work today and my boss called me into his office. They had been laying people off because the harvest is over so they don’t need as many guys working the fields. I was afraid, but after he closed the door to his office he told me that he liked my effort and he was going to give me a raise! And better yet, he said that both my wife and I can still get our government grants!”
Manuel’s face was covered in tears of joy, and my face looked like a mirror image as we just held each other and cried. “We always said that there were miracles,” I finally said. We both laughed and left to join the rest of the ward and his family for the baptisms.
Never have I seen simple faith so amply and deservingly rewarded. That experience has seared on my soul the love that our Heavenly Father has for each and every one of us. This memory is a mark earned by diligent toil and effort in the missionary field, and I will carry it forever.
From these great examples we can draw strength when the only solution to our challenges is the time-tested antidote of hard work. As the Lord counsels us in the Doctrine and Covenants 64:33, “Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small things proceedeth that which is great.” We may receive some nicks and scratches in the service of the Lord, but these guiding marks will offer us little remembrances of the testimonies that we bear. May we remember the words of Paul to the Galatians, and answer ridicule with his declaration when he said, “From henceforth let no man trouble me: for I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus.” (Galatians 1:17).
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Climbing with Patience (David O. McKay Essay Final)
Climbing With Patience
“Poley, poley” Abdu our mountain guide calls from behind as we begin our four day ascent up Africa’s highest peak. Before climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro I didn’t know what patience was. Despite continual exhortations, our group of thirty climbers continues quickly, greedy with empty stomachs seeking to be filled. We know the camp is near and we justify our careless approach in our weary state. As the terrain becomes steeper, our mountain guide cries more firmly “Poley! Poley!” I fail to understand the value of these words and carry forward without hearing the literal meaning: “slow down, slow down!”
“Hold your horses,” “Keep your shirt on,” “Slow down,” “Don’t be in such a hurry,” “Follow the rules,” “Be careful” are more than trite expressions. They describe sincere counsel and speak the wisdom of experience. (Thomas S. Monson)
In ignorance we fail to see the value of patience as an essential ingredient to overcoming the obstacles on Mount Kilimanjaro. I justify in my anxious state that patience may be an optional principle that is recommended for the weaker climbers of the group as they slowly progress. As we continue the climb at erratic speeds (fast, then slow…fast, then slower), it becomes more evident that patience manifests itself in a controlled, diligent ascent. Notwithstanding, we climbb without the wisdom of experience. Our eyes cannot see the narrow ridge ahead, hiking blind at a brisk pace. The tropical rainforest which welcomed us with a warm and friendly greeting in the day now lurks over our heads with mysterious fear in the dark, frigid night. Our ears hear the earth moan beneath us, our feet covered in mud begin freezing over. I slip on the trail, my frostbitten hands feeling for the unprotected roots of a nearby tree found with the aid of my headlamp. “Poley, poley!” resonates again in my aching ears, while my feet search for footholds.
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Let me start at the beginning: Together with a group of thirty adventurers I hope to stand on the roof of Africa climbing on our four day ascent of almost 20,000 feet to reach the peak of Mount Kilimanjaro. After a long, bumpy journey along the dirt roads of Kenya from the capital of Mombassa, we arrive at the base of one of the world’s highest peaks. From the beginning of our voyage each group member is given opportunities to exercise patience through cancelled flights, long lines of disorder at customs, and several stop-and-go uncomfortable bus rides with detours. My enthusiasm for the climb that will begin early the next morning is rivaled by my impatience which brings with it thoughts of frustration, weariness, and exhaustion. I collapse in my tent at the edge of the village.
Patience is essential for both high altitude climbing just as it is for obtaining the summits of life. Climbing life’s mountains brings opportunities for wise counsel to be followed or discarded. Patience enables agency to be directed (developed) with wisdom just as impatience provides (sets) the stage for foolishness. Patience enables other attributes to grow in life just as it helps facilitate our group’s ascent in numerous ways.
Patience may well be thought of as a gateway virtue, contributing to the growth and strength of its fellow virtues of forgiveness, tolerance, and faith.
(Robert C. Oaks)
Roosters crow, disrupting the silence of the dark night, in anticipation of morning. Acacia trees (silhouettes) are illuminated along the horizon as morning awakes. Babies cry, children’s feet shuffle along dirt roads sending stones rolling down the road to school. Thump, thump, thump… snap! … Empty cans bounce on the rear of a donkey traveling for water with the loud crack of a whip coming from a small boy herding livestock. A hustle and bustle along the main road is felt as smiles and greetings exchange on the way to the market.
A street dog yawns and stretches after being awakened by the sound of howling rubber tires and honking horns along the main road. My neck jerks suddenly, my resting eyes now made alert, my heart begins to race at the sound of shrilling brakes, my body forced from the left to the right. “Not again,” I thought. With the tilt of a wrist my watch mocks our tardy state; each second seems as a year while we wait again for livestock to clear the road. Our driver smiles while we watch each tick of the clock with unrest. Impatience is a choice.
Finally at the base of Mount Kilimanjaro Abdu, gives his hand to be greeted differently than most men do. He humbly offers the stub of his right arm ending just before the elbow’s usual formation. I shake, taking little time to act surprised at the feel of a limp, spongy stub. We exchange quick friendly greetings, and Abdu expresses his positive outlook on life as he cheerfully swings my week’s belongings onto his back. “We are go now!” he declares with a grin; for Abdu there is always time for optimism.
Right, left, right, left…step-by-step we ascend. The entire group works together to progress up the mountain, traveling at a pace to accommodate the slowest and least fit member of our group. I feel held back and become frustrated with the many stops along the way. In contrast, Abdu enjoys pausing to point out flowers of purple, blue, yellow, and bright pink clinging to steep cliffs, boulders, and switchbacks. “Zey grow up de mountain togezer zlow and zo do we” he states. He sees what I don’t in the mountains cold morning shadow. He understands what I do not.
Fallen leaves-- frozen during the night --crunch under our feet. We yearn for the light and warmth of the sun. Dawn brings a new perspective to time. The morning mist lifts, revealing the trail more clearly. My legs itch with excitement, pushing me forward despite the wise counsel given the group to patiently ascend together. Butterflies of vibrant colors and irregular flight patterns effortlessly flutter us by, traveling up the mountain ahead, and I long to join them. Fed up with the slow (yet steady) pace, I leap ahead. I don’t see that I must have others to help me ascend -- to wait for Abdu seems foolish. He remains with the group, helping others along and cheerfully educating those he leads in broken English. Exquisite birds soar with their glorious orange, turquoise and deep black plumage, cheering my flight through their long beaks. The euphoria of solitude on Africa’s highest ascent fills my being with selfish ambition as I pass by others without asking who I may be able to help. I have been taught that perfection is not a solitary quest and I know that to be perfected alone is impossible. Nevertheless, I determine to set my own pace, pushing patience aside.
I know, but ignore the fact that “Patience must be our constant companion during the journey which carries us toward that great goal, “Continue in patience until ye are perfected,” [which is] the counsel the Lord gave. (Angel Abrea)
Without the companionship of patience, I feel initially liberated to pursue my own course my own way without having to yield to the tempo of others. The path seems clearly marked with signs the first few miles. After a couple miles of swift solitude the trail splits in two and the empty reality of my solo race sets in. I pause for a drink of water while trying to decide which road will be less traveled, and which turn my followers will take. Uncertainty, concern, and then worry begin to cloud my thoughts.
A drop of dew from the tropical foliage above startles me on my forehead. Unfamiliar animals screech, and their shrill-like commune echoes from all directions. Flowers, trees, and bushes, I perceive to be closing in on my path, hiding unknown dangers. What was beautiful and adventurous with the group has now become spooky and threatening in my lonesome state since I distanced myself from the group. “What should I do? I cannot stop! Not now! This is just the beginning.” My young mind rivets on the summit with still another 17,500 feet to go.
Scurrying up the mountain, I neglect to notice the large grey clouds descending to dampen my adventurous euphoria. The thunderous growl of an angry sky and the fierce winds of the incoming downpour demand attention and compel me to be humble. Golf-ball size rain drops chase butterflies away and the heavy burdens of my poor choice to run ahead of the others slows my course. To obtain patience often requires repentance.
Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us. (Hebrews 12:1)
I swallow hard, pausing to catch my breath. Slipping and falling on several occasions in my attempt to climb through the storm on my own, thick mud covers my feet, my hands, and my arms and legs. I stop…I pray and I feel this great cloud is too great to conquer alone. In this tempestuous moment the words “Peace, be still” speak through the mountain’s squall to my mind and heart. Providing inward harmony amidst an outward uproar, this bit of divine advice directs my thoughts and I quiet my feet to reflect…
As a child, I remember learning lessons of climbing while simultaneously discovering lessons of life while climbing Mt. Timpanogos with my father. He leads at an active pace, but always looks back to make sure I am following. He patiently waits when I fall behind, teaching by example. I stumble, I fall, I cry at times climbing, but he is always there to help me continue. When a storm arrives at Emerald Lake, we take temporary shelter nearby before continuing the rest of the ascent. He smiles without worry and I confide in his path, planting my feet in his steps up the snowfield to the crest. The rigid and narrow trail of the crest to the peak frightens my bulging eyes as I look downward upon all of Utah Valley which seems so small below. My father assures me there is no need to fear as long as I take small steps along the rocky ridge. He taught me that patience is a key for persistence in overcoming obstacles. To Dad, any mountain is invincible.
Pondering the lessons of my childhood, I wait for the rest of the group with damaged pride but feeling my father’s approval. If he were here, he would want me to wait. I realize the climb up Mt. Kilimanjaro is not a race, but a journey that must be paced, as its reward is unachievable in solitude. While waiting for the rest of my fellow hikers, I begin to realize that I can no longer wait for patience to find me; patience is a virtue sought through action.
Brushing a clump of mud from my brow with my right forearm, I smile at my hard-working friend Abdu who shows no signs of fatigue in leading the group. “Jambo!” I declare after using my limited native vocabulary to express my apologies for disregarding his previous counsel. The surrounding porters chuckle at my mud-covered appearance, and we laugh together while continuing the ascent. Their abounding enthusiasm and optimism through the storm helps our group endure the storm with a calm perspective and diligence. Thunder, and then another flash of light, opens the heavens. United, we prevail with patience the giant drops of water amidst the beautiful, lush and green rainforests. Our surroundings seem no longer threatening, but beautiful, mixing culture and harvesting respect and hope through difficulty together.
Tribulation worketh patience; And patience, experience; and experience, hope. (Romans 5:3-4)
How quickly we return in error to our own devices. As nature regains her composure and turbulent clouds roll past us, we desire to make up for previous lost time as the sun sets. Our stomachs growl and our legs groan. We accelerate our pace partially to keep warm, but mostly due to our impatience. “Poley, poley…poley, poley!” the porters frequently remind. Most of our trekkers accelerate at a quick pace leaving some of the others behind in a smaller group, despite the warnings of our escorts, who were also forced to split up with the two different groups.
The end of day is met unexpectedly with the mysterious fear of a dark, in the frigid night that creeps upon us like a shadow of defeat. Our ears hear the earth moan beneath us, our feet covered in frozen mud. Climbing a steep ascent of the trail, my frostbitten hands feeling for the unprotected roots of a nearby tree found with the aid of my headlamp. “Poley, poley” resonates again in my ears made numb with the cold. Despite continual exhortations, we continue quickly, greedy with empty stomachs seeking to be filled. We know the camp is near. As the terrain becomes steeper, our mountain guide cries more firmly “Poley! Poley!” Our eyes cannot see the narrow ridge ahead.
A sudden panicked voice sounds amidst our group: “Help! Helllllp!” This screeching cry is put to a halt with the strong dark hands of a savior in the night. Abdu dropped everything else he was carrying at the sound of a frantic cry, and now labors to pull a wayward climber back up over the ledge she couldn’t see. With the enormous strength of his only arm, he willingly puts his own life on the line for a careless, disobedient trekker. As bushes are ruffled in the dark night, and grunts of exertion sound from the guide, excitement resonates within our group of still, frightened mountaineers. Success temporarily relieves fear; we know that God’s love accompanies us despite our failure to follow instruction. We have been chastened again for our disobedience and reminded that He will not let us fail if we will heed His guidance.
“Tank God almytee tonight” Abdu says while catching his breath. This near tragedy makes it evident that we are weak and in need of some greater source of guidance in order to progress to the top of Kilimanjaro and to be able to conquer the summits of life. Climbing life’s mountains brings opportunities for wise counsel to be followed or discarded; patience enables agency to be developed with wisdom just as impatience sets the stage for foolishness. We must patiently rely upon our guide!
We continue the night’s adventure once more, now walking on a frozen trail as if it were a path of egg shells, carefully listening to the counsel of our guide with each step. “Poley! Poley!” is all we can think or say or do in hopes that with patience we may avoid another wayward incident. Patience is stillness, carefully listening along the way.
My heartbeat quickens in the freezing conditions as we finally arrive at the first night’s camp. My vision is slightly distorted, and my stomach growls with nausea. My swollen feet carry my shivering body to crawl into the night’s tent with chattering lips. My head pounds with fear. I hope I awake in the morning without icicles on my chin. I am unprepared for the minus 17 degrees Celsius that sleeps by my side. In my shivering slumber I dream of a future adventure…
Climbing a popular peak in Peru a few years after attempting Mt. Kilimanjaro, I have a new appreciation for patience, applying Mt. Kilamanjaro’s lessons. waiting and hoping for the peak’s glorious outlook, while still finding joy in the slow-paced journey. While Wynapichu is a much smaller mountain than Kilimanjaro, it still presents the same challenges that come with a group climb, patiently working together to ascend. With each step I measure my progress, looking down upon the ancient ruins of Machu Pichu below. The thick fog carries an aura of mystery and without resistance I yield my pace to one of caution and safety. I am held captive by the beauty of the peak and its surroundings. My mind wanders, ponders and soars; I take the time to feel the spirit of the mountain commune with my own. Patience enables a spirit to grow, and progress.
Climbing with patience is climbing with hope; the two are inseparable. The word “esperar” in the Spanish language contributes to the relationship between hope and patience with its two definitions: “to wait for,” or “to hope for.” Storm clouds roll in, yet I feel no rush. Diligence carries my group to the top of the ancient Incan Empire where we stand in peace. My senses are heightened as I glance over a cliff, nearing the steep peak. Impatience could bring catastrophic consequences in this moment as I carefully climb the last steps to the summit. Victory! Patience, as with all gospel principles, is rewarded without fail…
Upon my early morning rise, scattered among rocks big and small by God’s omnipotent hand, seeds of truth lay unseen on Mt. Kilimanjaro, humbly hidden by the brilliance of something grandiose, picturesque and magnificent. The new day brings new perspective. Patience requires time and time affords patience. My eyes are opened to wonders overlooked the day before. The beauty and warmth of morning’s first light bring optimism and gradually replace the life-endangering dark despair of night. The hours of darkness our group begrudged poorly with complaint and murmur, were endured by the mountain guides, who remained constant, calm and content. I ask Abdu how he does it. “Practeece” he replies. “I climb dis mountain so many timez…and alwayz God, He be zer.” Patience is enduring well without end, and thus, patience takes practice.
Before beginning our ascent with fresh eyes to see and ears to hear, Abdu approaches our group with a heavy head. His usual sanguine and upbeat persona was covered by uncertainty and concern on his face. We wait for his command to rally us up the mountain together….but it never comes. “We don’t go today up” he shares. Silence…. “We go today down” he speaks softly with disappointment. The executive decision that our group was not strong enough to continue with the difficult terrain and weather ahead, brought disillusionment, distress, and discontent. Frustration escalates to become anger amidst the group, targeting Abdu. “You are not fail!” cried Abdu in an attempt to lift our spirits. “We go!” He would not let us feel defeat. Regretting our previous day’s mistakes, we follow Abdu back down the mountain against our own will. We trust Abdu and we feel his loving concern. Anger in our downtrodden hearts melts away with the rising sun.
Anger can be conquered by developing patience and sincerely desiring to love others more than self. Gordon T. Watts)
Abdu stops to point out flowers of purple, blue, yellow, and bright pink winding their way down from steep cliffs, boulders, and switchbacks. “Zey grow down de mountain togezer slow, and we go ze same way.” He sees what we don’t in the cold morning shade with boundless patience as we descend.
The Lord said, “Ye are not able to abide the presence of God now, neither the ministering of angels; wherefore, continue in patience until ye are perfected.” This is good advice for all of us. (Cecil O. Samuelson)
I patiently await the day of return to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, with active hope that the opportunity to summit presents itself. Retrospectively I see that I was not prepared at the time I attempted to face Africa’s tallest peak, but I also know my climb was not a failure. Before climbing Mount Kilimanjaro I didn’t know what patience was.
I now better understand the need for continual “Poley, poley” reminders in my life, and I strive to follow this counsel on my life’s path. I am now less careless in my approach to each day trying not to pass others by without taking time to look for ways to stop and help. I try not to take for granted many of the beauties around me, as I patiently observe the lovely people and places that make my life grandeur. I still fall short in many ways. I am not void of impatience and there are often times I find my feet running ahead of the guidance I’ve been given in my life’s school, work, and church callings. Yet, I have learned to find joy in the journey up life’s mountains, enduring the storms and stopping to help others along the way. If I proceed patiently—even through multiple attempts –I know God’s loving hand will guide me to the summit of Africa’s roof-top Kilimanjaro in His own time. As I patiently rely upon and follow my Eternal Guide up life’s mountains each day, there is no peak too high to climb.
Be still, and know that I am God. (Psalm 46:10)
“Poley, poley” Abdu our mountain guide calls from behind as we begin our four day ascent up Africa’s highest peak. Before climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro I didn’t know what patience was. Despite continual exhortations, our group of thirty climbers continues quickly, greedy with empty stomachs seeking to be filled. We know the camp is near and we justify our careless approach in our weary state. As the terrain becomes steeper, our mountain guide cries more firmly “Poley! Poley!” I fail to understand the value of these words and carry forward without hearing the literal meaning: “slow down, slow down!”
“Hold your horses,” “Keep your shirt on,” “Slow down,” “Don’t be in such a hurry,” “Follow the rules,” “Be careful” are more than trite expressions. They describe sincere counsel and speak the wisdom of experience. (Thomas S. Monson)
In ignorance we fail to see the value of patience as an essential ingredient to overcoming the obstacles on Mount Kilimanjaro. I justify in my anxious state that patience may be an optional principle that is recommended for the weaker climbers of the group as they slowly progress. As we continue the climb at erratic speeds (fast, then slow…fast, then slower), it becomes more evident that patience manifests itself in a controlled, diligent ascent. Notwithstanding, we climbb without the wisdom of experience. Our eyes cannot see the narrow ridge ahead, hiking blind at a brisk pace. The tropical rainforest which welcomed us with a warm and friendly greeting in the day now lurks over our heads with mysterious fear in the dark, frigid night. Our ears hear the earth moan beneath us, our feet covered in mud begin freezing over. I slip on the trail, my frostbitten hands feeling for the unprotected roots of a nearby tree found with the aid of my headlamp. “Poley, poley!” resonates again in my aching ears, while my feet search for footholds.
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Let me start at the beginning: Together with a group of thirty adventurers I hope to stand on the roof of Africa climbing on our four day ascent of almost 20,000 feet to reach the peak of Mount Kilimanjaro. After a long, bumpy journey along the dirt roads of Kenya from the capital of Mombassa, we arrive at the base of one of the world’s highest peaks. From the beginning of our voyage each group member is given opportunities to exercise patience through cancelled flights, long lines of disorder at customs, and several stop-and-go uncomfortable bus rides with detours. My enthusiasm for the climb that will begin early the next morning is rivaled by my impatience which brings with it thoughts of frustration, weariness, and exhaustion. I collapse in my tent at the edge of the village.
Patience is essential for both high altitude climbing just as it is for obtaining the summits of life. Climbing life’s mountains brings opportunities for wise counsel to be followed or discarded. Patience enables agency to be directed (developed) with wisdom just as impatience provides (sets) the stage for foolishness. Patience enables other attributes to grow in life just as it helps facilitate our group’s ascent in numerous ways.
Patience may well be thought of as a gateway virtue, contributing to the growth and strength of its fellow virtues of forgiveness, tolerance, and faith.
(Robert C. Oaks)
Roosters crow, disrupting the silence of the dark night, in anticipation of morning. Acacia trees (silhouettes) are illuminated along the horizon as morning awakes. Babies cry, children’s feet shuffle along dirt roads sending stones rolling down the road to school. Thump, thump, thump… snap! … Empty cans bounce on the rear of a donkey traveling for water with the loud crack of a whip coming from a small boy herding livestock. A hustle and bustle along the main road is felt as smiles and greetings exchange on the way to the market.
A street dog yawns and stretches after being awakened by the sound of howling rubber tires and honking horns along the main road. My neck jerks suddenly, my resting eyes now made alert, my heart begins to race at the sound of shrilling brakes, my body forced from the left to the right. “Not again,” I thought. With the tilt of a wrist my watch mocks our tardy state; each second seems as a year while we wait again for livestock to clear the road. Our driver smiles while we watch each tick of the clock with unrest. Impatience is a choice.
Finally at the base of Mount Kilimanjaro Abdu, gives his hand to be greeted differently than most men do. He humbly offers the stub of his right arm ending just before the elbow’s usual formation. I shake, taking little time to act surprised at the feel of a limp, spongy stub. We exchange quick friendly greetings, and Abdu expresses his positive outlook on life as he cheerfully swings my week’s belongings onto his back. “We are go now!” he declares with a grin; for Abdu there is always time for optimism.
Right, left, right, left…step-by-step we ascend. The entire group works together to progress up the mountain, traveling at a pace to accommodate the slowest and least fit member of our group. I feel held back and become frustrated with the many stops along the way. In contrast, Abdu enjoys pausing to point out flowers of purple, blue, yellow, and bright pink clinging to steep cliffs, boulders, and switchbacks. “Zey grow up de mountain togezer zlow and zo do we” he states. He sees what I don’t in the mountains cold morning shadow. He understands what I do not.
Fallen leaves-- frozen during the night --crunch under our feet. We yearn for the light and warmth of the sun. Dawn brings a new perspective to time. The morning mist lifts, revealing the trail more clearly. My legs itch with excitement, pushing me forward despite the wise counsel given the group to patiently ascend together. Butterflies of vibrant colors and irregular flight patterns effortlessly flutter us by, traveling up the mountain ahead, and I long to join them. Fed up with the slow (yet steady) pace, I leap ahead. I don’t see that I must have others to help me ascend -- to wait for Abdu seems foolish. He remains with the group, helping others along and cheerfully educating those he leads in broken English. Exquisite birds soar with their glorious orange, turquoise and deep black plumage, cheering my flight through their long beaks. The euphoria of solitude on Africa’s highest ascent fills my being with selfish ambition as I pass by others without asking who I may be able to help. I have been taught that perfection is not a solitary quest and I know that to be perfected alone is impossible. Nevertheless, I determine to set my own pace, pushing patience aside.
I know, but ignore the fact that “Patience must be our constant companion during the journey which carries us toward that great goal, “Continue in patience until ye are perfected,” [which is] the counsel the Lord gave. (Angel Abrea)
Without the companionship of patience, I feel initially liberated to pursue my own course my own way without having to yield to the tempo of others. The path seems clearly marked with signs the first few miles. After a couple miles of swift solitude the trail splits in two and the empty reality of my solo race sets in. I pause for a drink of water while trying to decide which road will be less traveled, and which turn my followers will take. Uncertainty, concern, and then worry begin to cloud my thoughts.
A drop of dew from the tropical foliage above startles me on my forehead. Unfamiliar animals screech, and their shrill-like commune echoes from all directions. Flowers, trees, and bushes, I perceive to be closing in on my path, hiding unknown dangers. What was beautiful and adventurous with the group has now become spooky and threatening in my lonesome state since I distanced myself from the group. “What should I do? I cannot stop! Not now! This is just the beginning.” My young mind rivets on the summit with still another 17,500 feet to go.
Scurrying up the mountain, I neglect to notice the large grey clouds descending to dampen my adventurous euphoria. The thunderous growl of an angry sky and the fierce winds of the incoming downpour demand attention and compel me to be humble. Golf-ball size rain drops chase butterflies away and the heavy burdens of my poor choice to run ahead of the others slows my course. To obtain patience often requires repentance.
Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us. (Hebrews 12:1)
I swallow hard, pausing to catch my breath. Slipping and falling on several occasions in my attempt to climb through the storm on my own, thick mud covers my feet, my hands, and my arms and legs. I stop…I pray and I feel this great cloud is too great to conquer alone. In this tempestuous moment the words “Peace, be still” speak through the mountain’s squall to my mind and heart. Providing inward harmony amidst an outward uproar, this bit of divine advice directs my thoughts and I quiet my feet to reflect…
As a child, I remember learning lessons of climbing while simultaneously discovering lessons of life while climbing Mt. Timpanogos with my father. He leads at an active pace, but always looks back to make sure I am following. He patiently waits when I fall behind, teaching by example. I stumble, I fall, I cry at times climbing, but he is always there to help me continue. When a storm arrives at Emerald Lake, we take temporary shelter nearby before continuing the rest of the ascent. He smiles without worry and I confide in his path, planting my feet in his steps up the snowfield to the crest. The rigid and narrow trail of the crest to the peak frightens my bulging eyes as I look downward upon all of Utah Valley which seems so small below. My father assures me there is no need to fear as long as I take small steps along the rocky ridge. He taught me that patience is a key for persistence in overcoming obstacles. To Dad, any mountain is invincible.
Pondering the lessons of my childhood, I wait for the rest of the group with damaged pride but feeling my father’s approval. If he were here, he would want me to wait. I realize the climb up Mt. Kilimanjaro is not a race, but a journey that must be paced, as its reward is unachievable in solitude. While waiting for the rest of my fellow hikers, I begin to realize that I can no longer wait for patience to find me; patience is a virtue sought through action.
Brushing a clump of mud from my brow with my right forearm, I smile at my hard-working friend Abdu who shows no signs of fatigue in leading the group. “Jambo!” I declare after using my limited native vocabulary to express my apologies for disregarding his previous counsel. The surrounding porters chuckle at my mud-covered appearance, and we laugh together while continuing the ascent. Their abounding enthusiasm and optimism through the storm helps our group endure the storm with a calm perspective and diligence. Thunder, and then another flash of light, opens the heavens. United, we prevail with patience the giant drops of water amidst the beautiful, lush and green rainforests. Our surroundings seem no longer threatening, but beautiful, mixing culture and harvesting respect and hope through difficulty together.
Tribulation worketh patience; And patience, experience; and experience, hope. (Romans 5:3-4)
How quickly we return in error to our own devices. As nature regains her composure and turbulent clouds roll past us, we desire to make up for previous lost time as the sun sets. Our stomachs growl and our legs groan. We accelerate our pace partially to keep warm, but mostly due to our impatience. “Poley, poley…poley, poley!” the porters frequently remind. Most of our trekkers accelerate at a quick pace leaving some of the others behind in a smaller group, despite the warnings of our escorts, who were also forced to split up with the two different groups.
The end of day is met unexpectedly with the mysterious fear of a dark, in the frigid night that creeps upon us like a shadow of defeat. Our ears hear the earth moan beneath us, our feet covered in frozen mud. Climbing a steep ascent of the trail, my frostbitten hands feeling for the unprotected roots of a nearby tree found with the aid of my headlamp. “Poley, poley” resonates again in my ears made numb with the cold. Despite continual exhortations, we continue quickly, greedy with empty stomachs seeking to be filled. We know the camp is near. As the terrain becomes steeper, our mountain guide cries more firmly “Poley! Poley!” Our eyes cannot see the narrow ridge ahead.
A sudden panicked voice sounds amidst our group: “Help! Helllllp!” This screeching cry is put to a halt with the strong dark hands of a savior in the night. Abdu dropped everything else he was carrying at the sound of a frantic cry, and now labors to pull a wayward climber back up over the ledge she couldn’t see. With the enormous strength of his only arm, he willingly puts his own life on the line for a careless, disobedient trekker. As bushes are ruffled in the dark night, and grunts of exertion sound from the guide, excitement resonates within our group of still, frightened mountaineers. Success temporarily relieves fear; we know that God’s love accompanies us despite our failure to follow instruction. We have been chastened again for our disobedience and reminded that He will not let us fail if we will heed His guidance.
“Tank God almytee tonight” Abdu says while catching his breath. This near tragedy makes it evident that we are weak and in need of some greater source of guidance in order to progress to the top of Kilimanjaro and to be able to conquer the summits of life. Climbing life’s mountains brings opportunities for wise counsel to be followed or discarded; patience enables agency to be developed with wisdom just as impatience sets the stage for foolishness. We must patiently rely upon our guide!
We continue the night’s adventure once more, now walking on a frozen trail as if it were a path of egg shells, carefully listening to the counsel of our guide with each step. “Poley! Poley!” is all we can think or say or do in hopes that with patience we may avoid another wayward incident. Patience is stillness, carefully listening along the way.
My heartbeat quickens in the freezing conditions as we finally arrive at the first night’s camp. My vision is slightly distorted, and my stomach growls with nausea. My swollen feet carry my shivering body to crawl into the night’s tent with chattering lips. My head pounds with fear. I hope I awake in the morning without icicles on my chin. I am unprepared for the minus 17 degrees Celsius that sleeps by my side. In my shivering slumber I dream of a future adventure…
Climbing a popular peak in Peru a few years after attempting Mt. Kilimanjaro, I have a new appreciation for patience, applying Mt. Kilamanjaro’s lessons. waiting and hoping for the peak’s glorious outlook, while still finding joy in the slow-paced journey. While Wynapichu is a much smaller mountain than Kilimanjaro, it still presents the same challenges that come with a group climb, patiently working together to ascend. With each step I measure my progress, looking down upon the ancient ruins of Machu Pichu below. The thick fog carries an aura of mystery and without resistance I yield my pace to one of caution and safety. I am held captive by the beauty of the peak and its surroundings. My mind wanders, ponders and soars; I take the time to feel the spirit of the mountain commune with my own. Patience enables a spirit to grow, and progress.
Climbing with patience is climbing with hope; the two are inseparable. The word “esperar” in the Spanish language contributes to the relationship between hope and patience with its two definitions: “to wait for,” or “to hope for.” Storm clouds roll in, yet I feel no rush. Diligence carries my group to the top of the ancient Incan Empire where we stand in peace. My senses are heightened as I glance over a cliff, nearing the steep peak. Impatience could bring catastrophic consequences in this moment as I carefully climb the last steps to the summit. Victory! Patience, as with all gospel principles, is rewarded without fail…
Upon my early morning rise, scattered among rocks big and small by God’s omnipotent hand, seeds of truth lay unseen on Mt. Kilimanjaro, humbly hidden by the brilliance of something grandiose, picturesque and magnificent. The new day brings new perspective. Patience requires time and time affords patience. My eyes are opened to wonders overlooked the day before. The beauty and warmth of morning’s first light bring optimism and gradually replace the life-endangering dark despair of night. The hours of darkness our group begrudged poorly with complaint and murmur, were endured by the mountain guides, who remained constant, calm and content. I ask Abdu how he does it. “Practeece” he replies. “I climb dis mountain so many timez…and alwayz God, He be zer.” Patience is enduring well without end, and thus, patience takes practice.
Before beginning our ascent with fresh eyes to see and ears to hear, Abdu approaches our group with a heavy head. His usual sanguine and upbeat persona was covered by uncertainty and concern on his face. We wait for his command to rally us up the mountain together….but it never comes. “We don’t go today up” he shares. Silence…. “We go today down” he speaks softly with disappointment. The executive decision that our group was not strong enough to continue with the difficult terrain and weather ahead, brought disillusionment, distress, and discontent. Frustration escalates to become anger amidst the group, targeting Abdu. “You are not fail!” cried Abdu in an attempt to lift our spirits. “We go!” He would not let us feel defeat. Regretting our previous day’s mistakes, we follow Abdu back down the mountain against our own will. We trust Abdu and we feel his loving concern. Anger in our downtrodden hearts melts away with the rising sun.
Anger can be conquered by developing patience and sincerely desiring to love others more than self. Gordon T. Watts)
Abdu stops to point out flowers of purple, blue, yellow, and bright pink winding their way down from steep cliffs, boulders, and switchbacks. “Zey grow down de mountain togezer slow, and we go ze same way.” He sees what we don’t in the cold morning shade with boundless patience as we descend.
The Lord said, “Ye are not able to abide the presence of God now, neither the ministering of angels; wherefore, continue in patience until ye are perfected.” This is good advice for all of us. (Cecil O. Samuelson)
I patiently await the day of return to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, with active hope that the opportunity to summit presents itself. Retrospectively I see that I was not prepared at the time I attempted to face Africa’s tallest peak, but I also know my climb was not a failure. Before climbing Mount Kilimanjaro I didn’t know what patience was.
I now better understand the need for continual “Poley, poley” reminders in my life, and I strive to follow this counsel on my life’s path. I am now less careless in my approach to each day trying not to pass others by without taking time to look for ways to stop and help. I try not to take for granted many of the beauties around me, as I patiently observe the lovely people and places that make my life grandeur. I still fall short in many ways. I am not void of impatience and there are often times I find my feet running ahead of the guidance I’ve been given in my life’s school, work, and church callings. Yet, I have learned to find joy in the journey up life’s mountains, enduring the storms and stopping to help others along the way. If I proceed patiently—even through multiple attempts –I know God’s loving hand will guide me to the summit of Africa’s roof-top Kilimanjaro in His own time. As I patiently rely upon and follow my Eternal Guide up life’s mountains each day, there is no peak too high to climb.
Be still, and know that I am God. (Psalm 46:10)
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