BROTHERLY LOVE
I've been thinking a lot about love lately.
No, not that kind of love. Seriously, do you people know me at all?
Obviously, Grandpa J’s love for me has been heavy on my mind, but also the rest of my family’s love for me, my love for me, and most importantly, my Savior’s love for me.
Recently, it has been really difficult for me to feel the Savior’s love for me. Now, obviously, He being the perfect one and I the imperfect one in this situation, it is easy to see who would be at fault for this current predicament.
That is what made the entire thing so incredibly frustrating! It didn't feel as if I had changed any of my habits. I read my scriptures, I went to church, I put my shopping cart up at the grocery store. I was doing my best to be worthy of the Savior’s love, so why wasn’t I feeling it?
It was easy to pick out the love He had for those I loved, because they are oh, so easy to love!
My younger brother seems always ready to serve, without complaint, a trait all know I do not possess. My father is one of the hardest working men I have ever met, making my disgust at having to fold a meager pile of laundry even more shameful. Finally, my mother. Oh, my mother. That woman is pure, walking sunshine. Anyone who happens to stumble into her orbit leaves feeling rejuvenated and more loved than ever before.
And then there’s me. Negative (N)ellie. I mean, you guys, it’s all in the title. With my flaws and weakness constantly taking center stage inside my head, it can difficult to see why anyone would love me. Let alone the Savior of the world.
Now, before we continue on through my journey of self discovery, we’ve got a deal to make. Before we go on, I expect everyone of my two readers to agree to the terms about to be set forth. Understood?
Please, please, do not feel the need to create a list alerting me of all of my wonderful qualities. I did not begin my blog this way as a round about way of gaining an ego boost. In fact, I started it this way despite the crippling fear that my mother would find it necessary to shower me in her biased, biased love. However, in order to get to the end, we must first start at the beginning. For my rambling to make sense, a deep dive into the workings of my mind was in fact necessary. I’m sorry for the trip, but I promise that not only will it be short, it will also be worth your while.
Seriously guys, we’re fine.
This morning, as I sat in my pjs, grappling with the idea of letting a week go by sans blog (I mean, who would notice, really?), a story from my family history floated into my mind. Being the incredible family historian that I am, I cannot remember any of the names of these three, brave men, or the exact path of their journey. Luckily, I believe the spirit of the tale still rings true, even with my horrible storytelling skills.
As the Saints of the church were crossing the plains to reach their ultimate destination of the Salt Lake Valley, some of the men were called to aid their country in the Mexican American War. I am very proud to be the prodigy of many courageous men who marched in the Mormon Battalion, as this band was called, but today we will be focusing on the story of two brothers.
These two brothers were called to make the grueling trek across the country together, one old enough to fight, and one passing as old enough to fight because of his large stature. They set off on the march together, both relatively healthy at the beginning, but unfortunately for the younger brother (my ancestor) that did not last.
Not yet seasoned enough to endure the harsh realities of such a long journey, the young man became weak rather quickly, despite giving it his all. No doubt with a compromised immune system, the young man fell extremely ill, and quickly began to lag behind the rest of the group. Unable to slow down the rest of the men for this one soldier, the brothers' leader commanded the older brother to leave the younger on the side of the road to die.
Refusing to disobey orders, the older brother continued on without the younger. However, once the men had made camp, and all were sleeping, the elder brother snuck out with a brave friend to go and retrieve his younger brother who had been left behind.
For several nights in a row, the group of boys re-enacted this routine. Leaving the younger behind in the morning, only to race the whole night with him on their backs' to reunite with the group who had left him. Eventually, seeing the boys' stubbornness, the leader allowed the young boy to ride on his horse, to ensure the other two would not continue this incredible quest each night.
I have always marveled at the love and strength of the men in this story, but this morning, in the light streaming in through the windows and with a Mastiff snoring beside me, it has taken on a whole new meaning.
I am the younger brother.
We are one in this same, and not just because he is my great(x)I-don’t-know-how-many-grandfather. I am the one who is sick, who seems to be weighing the entire pack down. An unnecessary weight that many feel should be left behind to complain alone until she dies. (that last part is where my ancestor and I differ, I have a feeling.)
However, just as with the faithful elder brother in the story, there is one who does not view me that way. There is one who views me as more than just worthy of being saved, but essential. He sees the strengths I possess more clearly than anyone else, even myself, and knows the impact they can make on others.
Hoisting me on His back, He is more than happy to turn my preconceived weakness into strengths. He views me as more than worth the extra work, even if said work requires picking me up and carrying me at the end of each and every long, difficult day. He refuses to abandon me. He chooses to willingly give me the aide I feel I could never deserve, and more than anything else, He wants me there.
How do I know He wants me there? Well, aside from proving it to me countless times over each and every day, the fact that He willing gave His life for me is kind of a big indicator. For me, He suffered unbearable pain and anguish, struggling through not only the trials I carry, but the mistakes I make as well.
Why?
Because He loves me, flaws and all. He doesn’t expect me to overcome these trials all on my own, catching up to Him and the rest of the group when I am better, or one step closer to perfection. Never do I have to earn His love, or be worthy of it. No. He takes me as I am, walking every step of the way with me, to see that we reach my goals together.
He loves me. He thinks I‘m hilarious when others do not. Sitting beside me, He mourns with me over the loss of fictional characters, holding back judgement when others would rightly not. He acknowledges the weaknesses I posses, but casts them in a positive light, showing me how they can aid not only myself, but those around me. He emphasizes my wins, and downplays my losses. He wipes away my tears and lets me cry on His shoulder, without smearing the residue back on me in disgust. Happily, he walks every single step of my convoluted journey by my side, down every backroad and every u-turn. He truly is the best friend I could ever have.
He loves me. The Savior of the world, the most perfect person to walk the earth, loves me. If that genuine depiction of brotherly love is not enough to show that I am more than worthy of love, then I don’t know what is.
"And now, behold, I say unto you, my servant James, I have looked upon thy works and I know thee."
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