Simply and Satirically Me

We’ll call this more of a rambling string of only partially-coherent thought. But it’s been on my mind more and more. It seems like everybody’s out to fight against somebody somewhere. We’ve all got our own enemies in some form or another from the less-than-serious “I hate that girl who always comments in class” to the more dramatic “everyone in [insert political party or organization] is so immoral and going to ruin the world.” I’ve spoken about dichotomies before as well as stereotypes. We all hate being defined unless it’s an “us” v “them” situation where we suddenly see our friend group as the brothers on the battlefield courageously fighting against the fray of people different than us that we sometimes just don’t like and generally think are either “too cool for us” or maybe a little too awkward. I’m guilty of this. Memes don’t help with this, either. I guess that’s where this rant begins. I've recently noticed that every time someone posts something slightly a

“What, could ye not watch with me one hour?” The words were spoken by the Savior in what James E. Talmage called “the hour of His deepest humiliation. [1] ” Peter, James, and John had accompanied the Savior into the garden of Gethsemane. He had instructed them to watch with him. Yet, as he went and prayed and suffered, all three of them eventually fell asleep. The words feel almost like a stinging rebuke. Here the Savior of the world was suffering under the weight of a world of sin, and his closest friends and disciples couldn’t even stay awake to watch. Someone in my Relief Society made reference to this scripture during the lesson on Sunday. In a touching way that rang true for probably everyone, she mentioned an experience when she struggled with listening in church, or something to that effect, and the words came to her mind, “could ye not  watch with me one hour?” It helped her realize how little she was being asked, and how much she owed the Savior more of her attenti

The look on her face nearly broke my heart. Probably because I felt like I understood her. On one couch was a sister missionary overwhelmed with expectations she now believed were unfulfilled. In a moment of stress, she had vocalized suicidal thoughts to her trainer. The mission had decided to send her home with an official escort. She didn’t have a choice. Even if she didn’t mean what she said. On the opposite couch was me. A sister who hadn’t vocalized those thoughts, but they had come and gone in a similar vein. But keeping them to myself, I was allowed to stay. The difference between us, however, seemed infinitesimal.     Living in the same area as the Mission President, my companion and I volunteered to take the sister out for her last few days in the field. I felt like she needed to talk, and I wanted to let her. After we worked for much of the day, we went home and I asked her questions and let her tell me everything. That’s when I learned that her real fear wasn