Of Blankets and Hands

I guess it’s a tradition now to do a yearly blog post. Predictably in January or April. And I went back on forth on whether or not I should post this. Because honestly? I am very secretive about my testimony. I don’t bare it in church, I don’t post talks that inspire me, and I try not to talk about my faith too much. I think a major reason is that I know my testimony is weak compared to the amazing people I surround myself with. My testimony isn’t this complete perfect thing that I hear and see from others.

Said Blanket fort. 

I have a favorite quilt. It was hand stitched with love from an old Young Women’s leader. And I have had that quilt with me since high school when I started coming back to church. It has been across states, countries, and in all types of conditions. It has been my warmth on late night dates to drive in movies, the only thing between me and a rocky floor while camping, it has been used in the building of the most epic blanket fort ever, it has soaked up tears, mascara, sand, spilt hot chocolate. It is worn from going through the wash forty times, and has holes from all the times I’ve rubbed it between my fingers on restless nights. But it’s been the only constant object I have had since high school. Most of the time I didn’t even realize I was carrying it with me. I just needed some sort of blanket and it was the only one in my possession. It had served me well in the past, so I relied on it. When we found out Sister Kearsley, the wonderful woman who made it, was sick, someone asked all the girls to send a picture of them with their blankets, I balked at the idea of sending a picture of me with the quilt. It’s fraying,  covered in small rips and tears, has mysterious spills I don’t want to discern. “Oh no,” I thought. “There is no way I am showing how terribly I treated this fantastic gift she gave me. All of the other pictures are going to be girls showing spotless quilts.” And I didn’t do anything. 

And then when I found she passed away, I felt a deep sense of shame.

The picture I should have sent. 

I should have shown my tattered, dirty, soiled, LOVED quilt. It has been with me through first kisses, it was the only thing for me to grab on to in the plane ride to the biggest journey of my life, and it’s been my pillow in many car trips. It was not perfect, but it was always there, always appreciated. I don’t think she gave it to me expecting that it would come through the journey of life spotless, I think it was more important to her that it came on the journey to begin with. Some of the other recipients were more respectful of the gift they had. They kept it inside, treasured its workmanship but my road was filled with lots of rocks and bumps. Regardless of the many twists and turns, that quilt was with me. While I didn’t go around bragging about my quilt, the people closest to me know exactly what blanket I’m talking about. It was one of the most dependable things of my life, and as such I took it for granted.

I can’t tell her the difference of having it meant. I lost that chance to my own insecurity. But my testimony, much like the quilt, has seen me through my journey. It's rough around the edges, sometimes in worse repair than others, but it's still my constant companion. And I still have the responsibility to the giver who gave me all to share it, imperfect as it is. 

I am not going to go up to a pulpit and bear it to a bunch of people. Not yet, anyways. But instead I’m going to take the time and do it in my own personal way. And anyone who knows me at all knows I can talk in circles, so I apologize in advance for the long, wordy, winded post. 

Isaiah 49 15 Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee.

 16 Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me.

I always hated the phrase “like the back of my hand” because, honestly? Who really knows the back of their hand. Can you name all the veins, every small pore? No. But, on my right hand I have a scar on my knuckle. And if you asked me to draw it out, I can’t draw, but I think I would still get it right every time. That’s how well I know that scar. Every time I look down at my hands, I see it. I’ve heard when you get tattoos in visible places it’s much the same, you know every line, every part which you wish was shaded differently, you know every edge that’s not unblemished skin. And while the scripture literally means he has scars on his palms from the cross, it's more than that. 

He also has scars on his feet, in his side, but those aren’t the marks he makes reference to. It’s his hands. The first thing Thomas wanted to do when he saw Christ was resurrected was to assure himself by touching him. And from the very beginning, hands have been tied into the very essence of understanding. If we could but touch, we could be healed.  Hands are probably the body part we see the most of ourselves in our day to day interactions. We watch as our hands do things- type, eat, read, write, serve, hug, hold other peoples hands, shake hands. It’s with our hands first that most actions are accomplished, that we touch, feel, grasp and come to understand objects and people around us. And to think Jesus spends every day looking at the mark of us on his hands, at the scars he knows so well, and see’s us. We are literally imprinted on the skin of our Savior. We are engraved in his very being. He died so he can look at your mark on his skin, and think of you. He is ready to serve us, his hands are outreached to us, those same hands that are scarred because of us, but more importantly- for us.

Sometimes you need someones help to climb a wall..

But what’s more than that? Our walls are continually before him.

Now I am sure I am misinterpreting this scripture completely, (part of the reason I don’t bare my testimony at the pulpit, thank you), but there are all types of walls. But the most common types of walls I can think of are the ones we build around ourselves. And everyone has them. Some are small wire rimmed gates that blow open and closed with the wind, some are low brick walls you have to just slightly jump to get over. Some are lego walls, constantly changing shapes depending on the day and mood of the person. Some are mighty fortresses that only bombs or valiant warriors can chip away at. As many people, with the highest and sturdiest of walls will tell you, sometimes those walls are not there to keep people out, but to keep pieces of yourself in. Because typically the people with the highest of walls have learned the hard way that it’s easy to give too much of yourself away and not be given anything in return to fill the empty spaces with. And thus we add a few more layers every time we fear the essence of ourselves is escaping and we hoard it within our fortresses.   

But the Lord, the one who wants to give us everything, to just fill those empty spaces, he just keeps running into our walls. Imagine loving someone so much that your whole life revolves around them, they shun you, spit on you, kill you, and even after you continue to love and do anything for them? In any other circumstance we’d consider that a unhealthy relationship, and urge that person to put up some walls, to think of themselves. But the Lord? Has no walls. He has not let our hatred, spite, malice, indifference, or any myriad of indifference keep us from his love. We do that ourselves. We build up walls to keep us away from his love, and he waits patiently on the other side for us. Sometimes he sends the right people to help us tear down the walls, or to invade our deepest fortresses. And in very rare cases, he climbs the walls himself to reach us on the other side.

I've improved my wall climbing skills. 

As I cried to my bishop about how far I felt from the Savior, how undeserving I felt, he listened patiently and explained a simple principle to me. In my life, I have experienced selfless love. But I have also known quite a bit of conditional love. I was loved based on what I could do for the other person, what I could give, how good the circumstances were. And I have been mistakenly assuming the love from God and the Savior was the same way. And in my head I wasn’t serving the Savior with everything I had. I saw the way other people excelled at serving the Lord and I always fell short. And thus, I couldn’t be deserving of the type of love I desired. 

But it was just my walls before him. His love isn’t conditional. And that’s a hard concept for me to understand. There is no way to earn his love, to deserve it, to speak the love languages up to heaven to obtain it. It’s there. It’s been there all along. I’m written on his palms. 

Mormon 5:23- Know ye not that ye are in the hands of God?

And as anyone can tell you, the only way to obtain selfless love is to always strive to be worthy of the love you are given. I will never be worthy of the blessings of the sacrifices, but to acknowledge them, to try and match them in my own ways- that's the first step of breaking down the walls.

And I say these things, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.