Poem: The Parable of the Man of Grief

It has been about a year since a fight with my father led to my
decision to stop speaking to him.

In November last year I had a falling out with my father. In some ways, it was what I expected to happen when I went over to his house that day, after not visiting him for over a year because of personal mental and emotional struggles and obligations to school and my job. I knew he wouldn’t understand my reasons for staying distant, even though I was doing most of the suffering and experiencing all of the guilt—and I certainly couldn’t admit that I actually felt a little better by not feeling obligated to visit him when all he did was drink and talk badly about everyone I loved.

Excepting that visit last fall, I have not seen or spoken to my father for two years, collectively. I knew it hurt him and fostered much bitterness and hatred for which my father is infamous. But in my one-sided attempt at a tolerable father-son relationship, none of my struggles mattered to him, and neither did my love for him. Though the phone works both ways, the maintenance of our bond rested solely on my shoulders, and I had failed in his eyes.

His first words to me when he answered the door were not that he missed me, or was glad to see me—they were “I haven’t seen you in a year.” He counted every day of negligence so he could hurl them in my face the moment I came back to admit my mistake; that is so his style, and I knew it would happen. The other details of that visit are not necessary; I’ve shared them with close loved ones and made peace with what happened. But I left his house abruptly, at his order, and the tears began to flow the moment I got into my car a drove away. It was one of the hardest cries I’ve had in years.

The parable of the Good Samaritan, as depicted here by Dan
Burr, inspired the hymn that then inspired my poem about my dad.

The next time I saw my therapist after the encounter, he and I had a really good session talking about my dad and my personal issues that I feel stem from my relationship with him. I asked Chris, my therapist, if there was a way to work through some of my “daddy issues” after I had identified several in that session, and he just encouraged creative means, like journaling, music, poetry, etc. Without total resolve, I made a note in my mind to try to write a poem about my dad someday. It was in my thoughts, but not a priority.

In early 2017, perhaps 2016 as well, I had been spending my restless nights trying to memorize all the verses to the hymn “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.” I’ve always liked the tune, and had a couple of the verses already committed to memory, so I made a goal to memorize the rest. I would go over and over them in my head until I fell asleep, and get up in the morning sometimes and check the verses where I knew I had made errors. I decided after I had memorized the whole song that I really loved the rhythm and rhyming scheme, and that someday I would write a poem or hymn text to that same pattern.

New Year’s Eve of 2017, in the wee hours, I lay in bed again restless, and remembered these two goals—to write a poem about my dad, and to use the rhyming pattern from the hymn. So, like I have done many times in the past, I just started imagining lines in my head. The second verse came to me first, and I finished the entire verse in its essence before I fell asleep. Verses one and three I also worked out almost in their entirety before retiring. The theme that came from each verse as I made them up was that of a man in different stages of life, progressively succumbing to a miserable self-induced fate—just like my father.

Once I had the rhyming scheme and imagery together in my head,
the poem about my dad's tragic life was created rather quickly.

I awoke by noon the next day, showered, and got ready to go to my mom’s like I would any other Sunday, holiday notwithstanding. Before I left I sat down and typed out the verses I remembered from the night before so I wouldn’t lose them. I sat there on my computer for maybe half an hour and tweaked the verses a bit as I gave Mom time to run to the store before I drove down. Then I went to my mom’s house and came home just after ringing in the New Year 2018.

I was eager to get back on the computer and work on the poem. Because of my tendency to make poems with many verses, I decided I would make this one shorter, but of course with an even number of verses as per my OCD. I had three written out and the beginnings of a fourth, so I decided on six total. With the help of a thesaurus and rhyming dictionary when I got stumped, I finished the poem around 2:00AM. I was very happy with it. Though I didn’t feel the Spirit of the Lord as strongly as I have in the past when writing inspired pieces, I nevertheless knew that this piece was helped along by divine blessing.

I sent the poem via email to a select few close friends, and then I went to bed. I decided on the title for this poem because of the fact that I was inspired by the rhyming scheme of “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.” It’s kind of funny, too, but I also read just a day or two before some new Harry Potter books: “Quidditch through the Ages,” and “The Tales of Beetle the Bard” (well, they were new to me). The latter is a book of short stories with morals, like fairytales, but for the wizarding world; both are written by J.K. Rowling.

The latter book left me in a sort of whimsical mood, and I know that when I went to bed that night after reading them, there was inspiration from that book in the way I formed the verses for my new poem. I also had similar inspiration from the sort-of whimsical feel of the hymn itself, and I tried to mimic that feeling while also giving the poem a contemporary, modern application (because the stories about the man in the poem are taken from my dad’s own life and personality and my feelings towards him).

Though certain elements of my poem are symbolic, the piece still
reflects my feelings of growing up with an alcoholic parent.

I should also mention that in my Family Studies courses the last couple of semesters, I’ve learned a great deal about the family of origin and how the environment in which we are reared affects individuals for a lifetime, for good or for bad. I am realizing that much of my dad’s bitterness and misery are from his rough upbringing, which I still know little about. I do not offer that as an excuse (as the last line of the poem denotes—he had a choice), but it helps me cope by knowing that I am not the cause of his grief and pain. It makes me feel sorry for him, and honestly, helps me to forgive him for what he does to our family through his drinking and pride.

I almost decided to change the name of the poem to “The Parable of the Broken Man” because I thought it sounded more compelling. But first I looked up the definition of the word ‘grief’ and realized it was perfect for the man in my poem, and for my dad, upon whom the fictional man is based; the definition for ‘grief’ was “keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.” The last two words of that definition fit well, but stung a little as I comprehended the miserable end my dad is slowly crawling towards; a sense of regret overwhelms the somber end of the Man of Grief.

I shared this poem on Facebook at the request of family and friends, after I had posted vaguely about how creating the poem was the best part of my New Year’s festivities. It was so satisfying to have this sober reflection recorded permanently on paper, like a lens into my heart, my father’s heart, and the painful relationship we’ve shared.

My therapist told me, in his office that day when we talked about my father, that it was okay to let people go when their actions were toxic and harmful to us. He assured me that as much as it hurts, and even though the confrontation was not my fault, it was okay to think about my mental wellness and emotional health by setting boundaries with my father to prevent him from hurting me more and causing more damage. My therapist reminded me that I can still love my father—and certainly, I do—but I can make the choice to no longer let his choices affect me.

I only wish that the regrettable choices my father’s parents made, and the hurt that he has kept with him for so long could be washed away by something stronger than a million cans of cheap beer. Perhaps only God will ever truly know and understand the stony depths of my father’s heart.

❧

– The Parable of the Man of Grief – 

~ 

A tender boy there was who longed 

For gentle care and love refined, 

But by his fam’ly he was wronged 

And learned to isolate his mind. 

He had no place to turn for peace, 

But through his anger found release; 

From all his grief away he ran, 

And grew to be a broken man. 

A young man sought to drown his woes, 

So to his lips he put strong drink. 

A slurring speech replaced his prose; 

He ceased to feel, he could not think. 

Then laid he on his bed to rest, 

The bottle still clutched to his chest; 

But when he woke and rubbed his eyes, 

The pain returned—to his surprise. 

A father worked hard to provide, 

But fam’ly was to him a slight; 

His love for them he cast aside 

And took his poison every night— 

Indulged his thirst to great excess 

To drive away his deep distress, 

And as he slumped down in his chair 

It’s like he wasn’t even there.

A man with heart so insecure 

Learned only how to praise himself; 

His conscience he would self-assure 

And boast about his skills and wealth. 

His pride laid ruin to his life— 

He lost his children and his wife; 

He watched them go, but with a scoff 

Insisted he was better off. 

An old man carried much regret 

For words unsaid and deeds undone; 

With hardened heart, he would not let 

Himself be loved by anyone. 

He mourned for all the wasted years— 

The time was past for shedding tears. 

He saw now as he reached his end: 

The bottle was his only friend. 

The mem’ry of a man lived on 

Within the hearts of those who knew 

The roots of suff’ring long foregone— 

The hurt that he could not undo. 

And from his life they kept the best— 

Preserved the good, forgave the rest; 

But still lamented deep within 

The man they wish he could have been. 

~ 

- Wade A. Walker - 

January 1, 2018

~

** NOTE:  I share my writing on this site trusting that visitors are scrupulous enough not to plagiarize. If you'd like to share this poem or other content with others, please share the URL to the entire blog post. Please DO NOT copy and paste any text for personal use without written permission. As the original writer of the content herein, I’d like the credit for these pieces to remain mine. **

Cherries and Charity

Working as a cashier for several years now, I have both
witnessed and been a participant in many acts of charity.

I’ve worked as a cashier for over four years now. Presently, I’m employed with a local grocery store and I love my job. It’s true that standing on your feet for hours and hours can be difficult; my back and feet hurt at the end of an 8-hour shift, and I rely heavily on intermittent doses of ibuprofen during and after a work shift. But I love connecting with people every day and find most of my customers to be pleasant people (there are, of course, always exceptions, and I am thankfully a pretty patient and forgiving person).

I like the fact that being a cashier gives me an excuse or a reason to talk to strangers, whereas I am usually kind of hesitant interacting with people I don’t know in other circumstances. I see the opportunity to ask about someone’s day while giving them a huge, natural smile as an enjoyable task, and not just part of my job description. I often tell people (and I told the store manager this when I was interviewed for this position) that I see two options when interacting with others: You can make someone’s day worse, or you can make it better; you can leave people feeling glad that they interacted with you, or cause them to regret that your paths ever crossed.

I know this all sounds like cheesy, helplessly-optimistic job interview fodder, but I actually mean it—I want to make others happy and I want them to feel cared about. Certainly this desire also relates to my perfectionistic efforts to please others at my own expense, which behaviors have been toxic for me at times, and still remain an active struggle. But under the assumption that I will have one shot to make or break someone’s day, and reasoning that I may not ever see them again (though, of course I have regular customers), I like to do my best to give people a good experience—not just with the business I represent, but with a fellow member of the human family.

Though I have my rough days, I still see my customer service
job as an opportunity to bring love and joy to strangers.

If I can show forth extra compassion, care, love, humor, sympathy, empathy, or just relate to someone on a personal level while I am ringing up their groceries, I will feel like I’ve done my part as an employee and as a person. My values are old-fashioned, it seems—courtesy, politeness, friendliness, respect, and integrity—characteristics that I not only appreciate in others, but that I try to live by. And in our turbulent, disconnected world, connecting with another person face to face instead of through an electronic screen, seems to be a growing novelty—I dare even say an epidemic.

And I truly believe that small gestures can have large, positive consequences; perhaps this is why smiling at others when I make eye contact with them has become a habit for me. Not smiling when someone looks at me feels foreign and uncomfortable at this point. Smiles can brighten days and illuminate lives that are dreary; I know, because the smiles of others have pulled me out of the emotional cloudiness of stress and fatigue numerous times—and the smiling strangers have no idea that they have helped me.

The anonymity, for lack of a better word, of giving to someone else without expecting anything in return, is a feeling of goodness that I strive for. When I can tell I’ve made an emotional connection with a stranger, I have a bit more of a reward; but there is still a certain soft, gentle thrill in not knowing—and usually hoping in my heart—that my efforts at being personable were life changing. Again, this is something I know from rare experience, having been told how the sharing of my love or talents has changed individual lives, years after the fact. If anything, it’s a reminder that I have an influence on others, whether I think so or not; and I want to influence in joyful ways.

When cherry season came, I longed to buy
some of the nostalgic fruit of my childhood.

As the summer months began this year, the fruits and vegetables in season changed at the store where I work. I was adjusting to memorizing 4-digit PLU codes for produce that we did not have in abundance when I began my job in the spring—sweet corn, peaches, nectarines, and plums. I was particularly excited about the bags of dark-red cherries. I love cherries; growing up, several neighbors had black cherry trees that I would climb or shake to retrieve the fruit, and my summers were spent eating as many cherries as I could find. But for some reason, I haven’t had cherries in years, probably as younger generations of home owners have moved into older homes where fruit trees dotted the property, and have opted to pull the trees up in order to maintain the yard more easily.

With each bag of cherries I rang up (the code for them is 4045, by the way), the more I wanted to taste them again. But despite working again after six jobless months, I was still struggling financially. This is the first employer I’ve worked for that offered me accommodations for my Tourettes, OCD, anxiety, and depression through the Americans With Disabilities Act (ADA). When I struggle to come into work, for whatever reason related to my challenges, my employment with the company is protected so that I won’t lose my job as easily as I have lost jobs in the past because of the same reasons. Though I worried about feeling like I had a “free pass” to miss work, I have found peace of mind in knowing that I can call my employer in a timely manner and take the day off when I need to without getting written up or fired.

Needless to say, there are still consequences, as I am the one who has to deal with losing the working hours, and therefore losing out on pay. Even though I am working again, money has been tight as I’ve lived paycheck to paycheck, paying bills and covering new expenses that I didn’t have when I was unemployed and receiving help from the state and my LDS ward. Even just buying food is a problem, when for six months I received “food stamps” and groceries from the Latter-day Saint food pantry for the needy, known as the Bishop’s Storehouse.

So what does this have to do with cherries? Well, for several weeks I was strapped for cash because I had called in to work several times in a pay period. I literally had pennies in my checking and savings accounts, and my credit card and overdraft line-of-credit were maxed out. One day before going into work, I asked my roommate if I could borrow five dollars to buy some food on my lunch break that night; I tend to get the jitters if I don’t eat when I am working—kind of like a sugar crash that people get when they eat sweets or energy drinks on an empty stomach.

I was broke until payday; the only money I had was a pocketful of
loose change that I had to borrow from my roommate.

Of course, this is 2018, and my roommate asked if he could send me the money using a money transfer app, which I don’t have. The only option was good, old-fashioned pocket change, which my roommate retrieved from a jar in his closet. I went to work with five dollars in quarters. I bought some cheap snacks that I felt would sustain me through the rest of my shift, and had about two dollars left over, with which I planned to buy some cherries, which were on sale. I could just get a handful with the money I had—just enough to taste them and see if they were as good as they looked.

I eyeballed the bags of cherries that came through all during that shift. I checked the weights on the screen to see if I could gauge how many cherries I could get with two dollars, at $1.48 per pound. One gentleman, a younger man, came through and bought one full bag of cherries, plus a small produce sack of a few more cherries. We chatted casually, and I commented on how good the cherries looked. He asked if I’d tried them, since it was still relatively early in the season, wondering if they were sweet or tart.

I told him I hadn’t had any yet, but that I knew the darker they were, the sweeter they tended to be. He agreed, and asked how long they’d be on sale. I told him I wasn’t sure, but that they were the lowest I’d seen them since we first got them into the store; I commented randomly, just making conversation, that I planned to buy some when I got paid, and that I hoped they stayed on sale that long. When I weighed the small sack of cherries, it came to just under two dollars. After the gentleman paid I looked at the small bag closely, and hefted it in my hands a bit before sending them down the conveyor belt to the bagging area (at my store, customers bag their own groceries).

The young man asked if I noticed anything wrong with the cherries, since it is not uncommon to find a bug now and then, or a rotten fruit or vegetable among the rest. I replied that I was just making a mental note of the amount of cherries in the bag because I only had two dollars, and that particular bag cost just under that amount. He nodded in acknowledgement, and I thought nothing of it, because I am generally pretty honest with my customers, even while keeping a positive tone (for example, when customers ask how I am, which happens dozens of times a day, I don’t mind saying “I’m a little tired, but I’m doing great!” if such is the case; it is generally a point of interest for people, as we can talk about our busy days together and how much we look forward to going home, etc.).

After talking with a customer about my eagerness to try the
cherries, he discreetly gifted me a bag and left without a word.

A few minutes after the young gentleman left, a coworker who runs the self-checkout registers walked up to me with bag full of cherries. “A customer said to give this to you; I don’t know what it’s about,” she told me, looking confused. “What did he look like?” I asked, smirking. “Young guy, light-brown hair, white shirt…” she rattled off, and I recognized her description as the young man with whom I was discussing the cherries. I couldn’t help but smile widely as I put the cherries under my register.

I smiled for many minutes, flattered, humbled, and honored that someone had quietly decided to treat me so considerately by offering generous charity. But soon the guilt set in; I started retracing my words to the man, wondering if I had sounded as if I were dropping hints. If I had done anything to elicit his charity, I told myself, then I will feel awful. How embarrassing, I said. How whiny and needy I must’ve sounded, I thought. As I often do after being the recipient of charitable acts of kindness, I questioned whether my ability to relate to people and talk as “one of them,” a fellow human, made others feel obligated to serve me, like some pitiful charity case.

I tried to push the thoughts out of my mind. I rejoiced that I still had two dollars that I could use to buy snacks the next time I worked, or purchase some prescription medicine that I needed. I soothed my fears by declaring in my heart that when I had the chance to pay that man’s charity forward to someone else, I would. Whenever I receive charity, I always try to find a way to pay it forward when I am financially able to do so. Feeling resolved in this, I tried to smile again and looked forward to eating my cherries on my next break.

Promising myself that I would "pay it forward," that opportunity
came sooner than I expected in the form of a gallon of milk.

A large women soon came through my line in a seated electric shopping cart. In one hand she held an empty cardboard Tootsie Roll container which doubled as a loose change bank. In her other hand she held a slip from the change-counting machine near the entrance of our store; the slip can be redeemed for cash or purchases. On the conveyor belt was one gallon of whole milk. I realized in a moment that this woman had cashed in all the change she had in that Tootsie Roll cylinder in order to buy a single needed grocery item. I felt badly for her; I was instantly humbled, even in my own wanting circumstances.

I wasn’t sure how to cash out a receipt from the coin-counting machine; I had only done it once before, and that customer had used the money to buy groceries. The customer service desk usually redeemed these receipts for large amounts, but it was after 10:00 PM, so the customer service desk was closed. The woman’s meager reward from the cardboard bank was only about three dollars, so I decided just to try cashing out the slip like I had done only once before and letting her buy the milk with the money.

However, I made the mistake of not ringing up the milk first, which would’ve allowed me to use the change receipt as payment for the purchase, and then give her the remaining change. Instead, my cash register popped open and indicated me to give her the full amount of her redemption. I pulled the money from my till, and handed it to the woman. “Okay,” I said pleasantly, “I’m going to give you your money, and then I will take care of the milk for you.” But the instant I said it, I realized that it was misinterpreted, which was entirely my fault.

The woman’s mouth opened and her eyes suddenly sparkled. “Aww!” she softly exclaimed, “Thank you so much!” At this point I hesitated briefly, realizing I couldn’t go back on my words now—the woman thought that I had offered to buy her gallon of milk, and I wasn’t about to backtrack when I could tell that she was so touched by my unintentional gesture of charity. Before she could sense my hesitation, I smoothly rang in the milk, smiling big, and reached into my pocket discreetly for the money to pay for it; the total came to the exact amount of change I had left.

Like the widow and her two mites, I was grateful that I could give
what little I had to someone with a need greater than my own.

I put the coins into my till, pulled the receipt from the printer, crumpled it, and tossed it into the garbage in a way almost symbolic of my feeling that the act was nothing praiseworthy, because it really wasn’t. I had seen customers pay for strangers’ groceries many times over the years when the total was far greater, and so, perhaps, was the need. But to the woman, it meant more than just two dollars. “You are an angel; thank you,” said the woman before she grabbed her gallon of milk and drove the electric cart away. I waved and wished her well, perhaps more sincerely than I had any other customer that day. Though my smile lingered, in my head I thought that I would again have to figure out a way to buy food for lunch at work the next day, and wait on that medication (which, by the way, was not critical to my health).

But before I could worry about my financial situation or feel sorry for myself, the Spirit impressed upon me the realization that my opportunity to pay it forward for the gift of a bag of cherries had already come to pass, and only minutes after I was made the recipient of charity myself. At this thought, I laughed softly—that quiet, shake-of-the-head, “I’ll-be-darned” sort of laugh that pronounces that the Lord really does work in mysterious ways as the pieces all come together. I couldn’t help but thank God for presenting me with the chance not just to be served, but to serve again in return, when I already had so little to give.

I thought of the story of widow’s mite recorded in the New Testament. Jesus, observing the rich casting money noisily into the treasury boxes, saw a poor, unassuming widow approach the collection box and quietly drop in two mites, or the smallest denomination of coin available at that time. Getting His disciples attention, Jesus declared that this poor widow’s offering was worth more than the offerings of those who “did cast in of their abundance” for all to see; for the Lord, discerning the intents of her heart, understood that the widow “of her want did cast in all that she had, even all her living,” or all she had to live on, in other words (Mark 12:41-44).

I do not intend to praise myself, or sound the trumpet before me by writing this (see Matthew 6:2). The story of the widow’s mite is a favorite of mine, and as someone who has lived largely in poverty for many years, I very much understand her plight. Though she had little, her heart was turned toward something better for which she was willing to make a sacrifice. The treasury boxes where the widow cast in her donation belonged to the temple at Jerusalem. Monetary donations to the temple in Jesus’ day were both expected for adult Jews over a certain age, and also welcomed when given by freewill.

When vanity and pride are at the heart of our charity, we lose the
true reward of rendering compassionate service.

Though I didn’t understand the exact circumstances of the woman in my line who needed a gallon of milk, I believed that the little money I possessed (which was given to me in the first place) could do more good when spent on behalf of someone else whose need I perceived to be greater than my own. Likewise, the widow didn’t know how much good her farthing would make in the grand scheme of things, but she gave what she could give to help a cause she believed in, trusting that her gift would make a difference in the house of Jehovah, and that God would reward her faith.

I liken my experience to that of the widow and her two mites. I could’ve dramatically pulled the change from my pocket and tossed it loudly into my till one coin at a time to make sure everyone knew that I was doing something that others might find praiseworthy; in that way, I would’ve had my reward (see Matthew 6:2). Similarly, the young man who bought my cherries could’ve sauntered over to me and announced boisterously that he was giving me a gift that he knew would be meaningful to me as he handed me the bag.

But I he didn’t and neither did I. He left a lasting impression upon me that he didn’t even stick around to take credit for; I wouldn’t even recognize him if I saw him again, though he probably still does his shopping at my store. But I would want to thank him. I would want him to know how his gift of charity made me feel, but that’s not important to him, I am pretty certain. Likewise, I don’t require praise from the woman I helped, because my joy was found in her sparkling eyes the minute I accidentally made her my beneficiary.

Wise and heartfelt sentiment to this end was once given by an English writer and Puritan minister named John Bunyan (abt. 1628 – 1688), who wrote:

“You have not lived today until you have done something for someone who can never repay you.”

By the way—the cherries were delicious.

(Above is a beautiful visual portrayal of the account of the widow's mite created by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  See more videos HERE.)

Song Dissection—"Second Hand Heart" (Pt. 10)

See my introductory post, “Song Dissection – Second Hand Heart (Pt. 1)” for background on this essay project. If you are a new reader, I invite you to listen to the song and watch the official music video below. The lyrics are listed for you to read as well. This is the final installment of the 10-part series begun in January 2018, wherein I have reflected on spiritual lessons inspired by this song. 

* * * * *

– Second Hand Heart –

Performed by Ben Haenow

(Featuring Kelly Clarkson)

The light of the morning finds you sleeping in my bed

And it’s not like the stories; it’s never like what they said

I know who you want me to be but I’m just not there yet

Yeah, the broken road’s always been home and it’s so hard to forget

Wait for me now

Will you wait for me now?

CHORUS:

I might think too much, drink too much, stay out too late

I know I’m just a fool, but I swear I can change

I can’t steal you the stars, but I can give you this secondhand heart

All your friends think I’m hopeless, they don’t understand

That this imperfect love can start over again

It’s been broken apart, but will you still take my secondhand heart?

(FIRST STANZA REPEATS)

(CHORUS REPEATS)

FIRST BRIDGE:

If you let me show you, I could love you the same

And I can’t steal you the stars, but I can try every day

Oh, you know they’ll never tear us apart

SECOND BRIDGE:

And I’m just a fool, but I swear I can change

And I can’t steal you the stars, but I can try every day

Oh, you know you got my secondhand heart

(SECOND BRIDGE REPEATS)

* * * * *

“If you let me show you, I could love you the same

And I can’t steal you the stars, but I can try every day

Oh, you know they’ll never tear us apart

… you know you got my secondhand heart” 

Elder George Albert Smith (1870 – 1951), who would later be sustained as the eighth president and prophet of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormons) once said the following:

         “The beauty of the Gospel of Jesus Christ is that it makes us all equal in as far as we keep the commandments of the Lord. In as far as we observe to keep the laws of the Church we have equal opportunities for exaltation.”

         ~ In Conference Report, Oct. 1933, 25.

This quote by then-Elder Smith was among the first of a collection of quotes that I began recording shortly after I joined the LDS Church. I wrote them in a spiral-bound notebook and later meticulously transferred them to my computer where my collection has reached over 300 quotes from LDS prophets, apostles, and general authorities. As I’ve pondered the closing of this Song Dissection essay series, and these final few lyrics, I’ve reflected much on my distant past, the recent past, the present, and my future in order to write about what these lyrics meant to me when I first heard them, and what they mean to me now.

Growing up as a closeted, gay young man, and also living with Tourette syndrome and obsessive compulsive disorder, I was frequently torn between wanting to fit in with everyone else, while still desiring to stand out among the crowd as someone unique and special. I recognized my talents and wanted to share them with others, perhaps in compensation for possessing so many visible and invisible flaws and shortcomings.

I wanted to be included while internally my sexuality made me feel excluded from others, especially other males. Outwardly, I couldn’t help but be noticed with my frequent vocal and motor tics. I’ve thought about this period of my life a lot, with sorrow, regret, shame, and anger—for the ways in which I was treated, for the ways I behaved and acted out while yearning for attention.

It's an interesting feeling to know that you stand out from the
crowd while having a strong desire to fit in with others.

Looking back now, I feel that what I really wanted most was to be noticed and acknowledged on my own terms rather than forced into public view by the disorders that ruled me. I wanted to be liked because of my good qualities, not necessarily my outstanding quirks; I wanted to feel important because of my human worth, not because others felt sorry for me. Many days I wanted just to blend in with the crowd (preferably the more popular, well-liked groups); other days I longed to juxtapose myself across social circles and be admired by all. My sometimes erratic behavior got me into a lot of trouble during high school as I struggled so hard to find a comfortable place among my peers, while maintaining my individual identity (as I simultaneously suppressed my sexual identity, albeit very poorly).

It’s an interesting feeling to know that some integral part (or parts) of who you are—like your sexual orientation, gender identity, race, ethnicity, etc.—make(s) you unequal to everyone else around you in ways that you cannot fully comprehend in your youth. I think this is why I sought early on to find a community or clique that understood me and appreciated my differences, while also not emphasizing them. People who wanted me, needed me, but with whom I fit in like a piece of a larger puzzle. People I could be mostly myself around without censoring, silencing, or second-guessing.

Like a phoenix from the ashes, my trials
have given rebirth to my confidence to
be unique in a pool of cultural homogeneity.

Over the last several years, I have caved to the idea that I cannot be the Latter-day Saint or disciple of Christ that my Mormon peers expect me to be, which is a devastating inclination for someone like me, who for so long felt rescued by my faith and devoted to it for life (and eternity). Yet my realizations brought me very near to leaving the Church for the second time, just a year ago. Though the ways in which I’ve grown in the last year are important, they are subtle even to me, and I will not try to explain them. What I can articulate is that, like a phoenix that survives its own self-induced flames, this process of suffering and starting over has renewed my sense of identity and self-worth and given birth to a new confidence that inspires and emboldens me to embrace my outstanding differences in a pool of cultural sameness.

I have chosen not to succumb to the trends of homogeneity in my faith. I invite and embrace human diversity in all its many forms, especially with people and in places where diversity is too-often viewed as rebellion, irreverence, or lackadaisical discipleship. I am pushing back, gently, against the impossible cultural standards where I live, work, and attend school and church, which is saturated with toxic messages that do not reflect the God I know and the gospel I have come to love.

With a large portion of my faith and testimony restored, I am trying to make a place for myself in the church, just as I am—no apologies, no explanations, and no guilt. I am striving to show my fellow Mormons that I can love God the same as they do, and that it doesn’t matter if I wear a rainbow tie tack to church, or bring my sparkly man-purse to activities, or whether I talk openly in meetings about my sexuality or speak up to correct misguided generalizations about people and unfair blanket statements that exclude others.

It has been said before (and reiterated by LDS leaders) that we ought not to judge others for “sinning differently” than we do—because we all sin (Romans 3:23). I offer that it is just as courteous, if not critical, to apply the same token by not judging others (in this instance, fellow Latter-day Saints) for worshipping differently than we do—because we all worship the same God. We are brothers and sisters of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and our faith should unite us in every respect, where too often it divides us in petty and insensible ways.

"Come As You Are" by Greg Olsen
Copyright © 2018 by Greg Olsen

More importantly, for me, I am trying to show my Heavenly Father and my Lord, Jesus Christ, that I can support the people, causes, and communities I love—and feel equally apart of, like the gay community—the same as I love Them, my heavenly home, and the gospel path I am presently taking. And I see no reason why I can’t do just that. I have made sacred covenants to obey God’s laws and commandments, and I honor and keep those covenants while repenting often to show Him that I am dedicated to being my best self. Every other detail of my worship is between me and the Lord.

The only inapplicable portion of the lyrics in this instance is that I am not asking for permission to squeeze my way into a toxic culture that proscribes me from being who I am; I am deliberately making a place for myself there in the hope that I can force a few people out of their comfortable cultural bubbles to see that Mormons are not cookie-cutter people, as I like to call them—nor do we have to be. What unites us is that we love the Lord, we know where we came from, why we are here, and where we want to go—back home to our Heavenly Parents.

It’s true that I will never be able to prove to God that I will always be faithful to Him and the covenants I’ve made in His holy house. My experience as a Latter-day Saint has been wracked with ups and downs. But like the lyrics of the song, I can acknowledge the majesty and splendor of the star-filled heavens while recognizing, trustingly, that they are not in my power to command. Perfection is not a reality of mortality; it is a blessing of eternity. What’s important now is that I continue to aim for the stars, knowing that in time I will reach them.

Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf, an apostle of the Lord, and then a member of the First Presidency of the Church once gave this beautiful anecdote:

          “Isn’t it wonderful to know that we don’t have to be perfect to experience the blessings and gifts of our Heavenly Father? We don’t have to wait to cross the finish line to receive God’s blessings. In fact, the heavens begin to part and the blessings of heaven begin to distill upon us with the very first steps we take toward the light.

           “The perfect place to begin is exactly where you are right now. It doesn’t matter how unqualified you may think you are or how far behind others you may feel. The very moment you begin to seek your Heavenly Father, in that moment, the hope of His light will begin to awaken, enliven, and ennoble your soul. The darkness may not dissipate all at once, but as surely as night always gives way to dawn, the light will come.

                    ~ “The Hope of God’s Light,” Ensign, May 2013, 75.

When I was baptized, I was under the impression that rising out of the warm waters of the baptismal font made me clean from my sins—which I felt were many, even at age 16—and that it was my responsibility to never sin again. I remember how awful I felt when I transgressed the new law of my life as a covenant member of God’s Kingdom soon after. Similar vices have stayed with me since then, and I don’t imagine they will ever leave—I will probably always be tempted to sin and transgress in ways that have long helped me to cope, find relief, self-soothe, and bring comfort.

But how wrong I was to assume that becoming a disciple of Christ meant being a perfect mortal at all times and in all places. I have learned through trial and error that God’s only expectation for me is to do my best and let the atonement of Jesus Christ make up for the rest. I am happy for the times when I am strong in the faith; but I have seen too many like me leave, and have myself wanted to leave (or have done so) too many times to erroneously assume that I will always be a Mormon.  I simply don't know, and try not to speculate either way.

To some, that probably sounds pessimistic and depressing. To me, though, it is living purposefully and deliberately with my challenges—spiritual, physical, mental, and emotional—by choosing to be a person of faith as long as I can. I cannot say that others (or myself, really) will never tear me apart from my religion, but I don’t think I could ever disregard a belief in my God or my Savior, even if my relationship with Them changed over time.

I take comfort in knowing that the Lord knows all the
chapters of my life, and all the feelings of my heart.

For now I can have faith and trust in power and knowledge greater than my own that things are working out exactly as they should, and will continue to do so. I can forgive others of their insensitivities and ignorance, though at times it is difficult. And I know that no matter what I go through in life, or how my circumstances affect me temporarily, my Redeemer has my secondhand heart permanently, and it is of more value to Him than I could ever possibly comprehend.

He knows my heart’s hurt, its sorrow, its passion, its love, its devotion—for all things, including Him. He knows perfectly, intimately, every story my heart could tell, because He was with me through the telling of them all. He took my heart gently in His pierced hands and mended it after every conflict, struggle, and sin that bruised it, broke it, and crushed it. And I am confident that all that my secondhand heart has felt and endured will be taken into account in the end; and I believe this will hold greater power in the final judgment of God over any choices we may make in order to find further peace and fulfillment and to endure well to the end.

When I look at my brothers and sisters and see addictions, transgressions, weakness, hatred, and foolishness, I am reassured that Christ knows every detail of their turmoil, and all the reasons for their actions. And I am thankful that my tales of success, failure, struggle, and triumph are forever written in the hands and feet of the Master Storyteller, who will mercifully consider all the chapters of my life—both told and untold—before making His final review.  “For the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7).

          In the Roman Catholic tradition, the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, or Sacratissimum Cor Iesu in Latin, is a devotion (non-liturgical, or personal, form of worship) recognized annually by a solemnity, or religious celebration, called the Feast of the Sacred Heart, which takes place outside of regular Sunday worship. Pope Pius IX established the solemnity of the Sacred Heart in 1856 as obligatory for the whole church.  The devotion to the Sacred Heart is one of the most well-known and widely practiced devotions in Catholicism, taking the physical heart of Jesus Christ as the representation of His divine love for humanity.

          Considering that the Feast of the Sacred Heart will be celebrated this week (June 8, 2018) by Catholics worldwide, I found this painting by an unknown artist to be an appropriate conclusion to this essay series, showing the Savior holding His own perfect, but once-wounded heart in His hands—also symbolic, perhaps, of the way the Lord holds our hearts in perfect love and mercy.

          It is my prayer that the followers of Christ, in many faiths, will remember always that Jesus knows how to heal our secondhand hearts because His own beating heart was once stilled for our sakes, and brought to life again through His miraculous resurrection.  Our Redeemer lives, and I testify of it!

          To my readers, thank you for joining me on this literary journey.

                    ~ Wade

Song Dissection—"Second Hand Heart" (Pt. 9)

See my introductory post, “Song Dissection – Second Hand Heart (Pt. 1)” for background on this essay project. If you are a new reader, I invite you to listen to the song and watch the official music video below. The lyrics are listed for you to read as well; after which, I will continue to dissect the song and share my thoughts on the lessons that it taught me, which is one reason I love this song so much. Be sure and check back for subsequent updates in this 10-part series. 

* * * * * 

– Second Hand Heart –

Performed by Ben Haenow

(Featuring Kelly Clarkson)

The light of the morning finds you sleeping in my bed

And it’s not like the stories; it’s never like what they said

I know who you want me to be but I’m just not there yet

Yeah, the broken road’s always been home and it’s so hard to forget

Wait for me now

Will you wait for me now?

CHORUS:

I might think too much, drink too much, stay out too late

I know I’m just a fool, but I swear I can change

I can’t steal you the stars, but I can give you this secondhand heart

All your friends think I’m hopeless, they don’t understand

That this imperfect love can start over again

It’s been broken apart, but will you still take my secondhand heart?

(FIRST STANZA REPEATS)

(CHORUS REPEATS)

FIRST BRIDGE:

If you let me show you, I could love you the same

And I can’t steal you the stars, but I can try every day

Oh, you know they’ll never tear us apart

SECOND BRIDGE:

And I’m just a fool, but I swear I can change

And I can’t steal you the stars, but I can try every day

Oh, you know you got my secondhand heart

(SECOND BRIDGE REPEATS)

* * * * *

“It’s been broken apart, but will you still take my secondhand heart?”

When Jesus Christ appeared to His disciples in the ancient Americas, He declared the Law of Moses to be fulfilled in Him, and that their burnt offerings and sacrifices would no longer be acceptable to Him. In place of animal sacrifice, he taught the Nephites that a broken heart and contrite spirit would be required of all those who professed to follow Him and sought to be like Him (3 Nephi 15:2-10; 3 Nephi 9:15-20).

"Similitude" by Walter Rane
Blood sacrifice began by the Lord's command
with Adam & Eve, after they were expelled from
the Garden of Eden.

When you consider all the blood that was spilt, poured out, and dabbed on holy altars or at their bases over centuries of Mosaic Law, one can only wonder if the Israelites and ancient American followers of Christ ever pondered curiously the necessity of so much symbolic carnage in the name of Deity. Throughout the Old Testament record we can see that some generations of the children of Israel did not fully understand God’s Law with its statutes, ordinances, and commandments; this misunderstanding repeatedly led the Lord’s covenant people into pride, spiritual blindness, and idolatry (Psalms 78:5-8).

As we read the scriptures today, we may wonder ourselves how many more young bullocks, rams, sheep, or pairs of turtledoves would be required for them to finally see the likeness and image of a Messiah in their offerings consumed by flames. Had I lived then, even I would wonder, “Is it enough yet? What more have we to learn about our God?” For when the Lord did indeed come to earth clothed in flesh, He was recognized by relatively few as the promised Son of God during His lifetime, but rejected by the majority of the Jews in Jerusalem and killed by the faith’s highest leaders (John 5:43-47).

I can visualize the Tabernacle in the wilderness where Aaron, the brother of Moses, and his sons worked—within the outer curtains of the structure the dusty ground is wet and muddy, not with water, but soaked with blood and stained crimson. Mosaic Law was given to the Israelites because they brought with them to Sinai the idolatrous worship of the Egyptians; this kept them from the higher law of the Melchizedek Priesthood. Today’s standard for peace offerings and sin offerings are not as complicated, at least in deed. But still, the gift of a broken heart and a contrite Spirit, along with the blessed and sanctified bread and water may sometimes seem to us of little avail compared to the complicated and meticulous grandeur of sacrifice and offerings performed by the sons of Levi.

Latter-day Saints today still kneel at altars
inside holy temples to make sacrifices and
covenants with God.

And yet, that is all that the Lord requires of us—the gathered pieces of our broken hearts, and the low humility of our fallen spirits, given freely over to Him. Like the analogy used by Elder Neal A. Maxwell in a previous section (see "Part 2" of this series), often our offering to God will seem like a trivial, burdensome dandelion upon the altar of God; but the offering—any offering—is accepted by Him when it is given in humility. I have heard the offering of a broken heart described as godly sorrow, which brings us to God to seek forgiveness. Secondarily, the contrite spirit has been called meekness before God and the willingness to be healed and forgiven.

In Moses’ day, according to the Book of Leviticus, a man or woman coming to the temple with an offering gave the best that they had to God for a sacrifice. If, because of scarcity or poverty, he had none of the rightful animals to sacrifice and burn, he brought what he could, even it was only “a handful of flour” mixed with a little oil and incense; and the Levite priest accepted it “to be an offering made by fire, of the sweet savor of the Lord” (Leviticus 2:2).

Elder Maxwell expounded this concept in yet another beautiful way when he said:

        “…[R]eal, personal sacrifice never was placing an animal on the altar. Instead, it is a willingness to put the animal in us upon the altar and letting it be consumed! Such is the ‘sacrifice unto the Lord . . . of a broken heart and a contrite spirit,’ (D&C 59:8), a prerequisite to taking up the cross, while giving ‘away all [our] sins’ in order to ‘know God’ (Alma 22:18), for the denial of self precedes the full acceptance of Him.”
          ~ Elder Neal A. Maxwell, “‘Deny Yourselves of All Ungodliness,’” Ensign, May 1995, 68.

No matter what we have to offer the Lord when we come to Him for help or comfort, He will always receive it with open arms and accept it. It does not matter if it’s the first time we’ve ever sinned or the millionth time (because the lifetime sin-count will be high for all of us); Jesus will take the pieces of our tattered secondhand, third-hand, millionth-hand hearts and guide us in putting them back together. From His high cross on Golgotha He lifts us up with Him through our adversity; and from His high throne in Heaven He releases us from sin and guilt by His atoning power, knowing full well that it will not be the last time. Like Paul wrote to the Galatians, “[we are] crucified with Christ: nevertheless [we] live” because Christ died for us (Galatians 2:20).