To Suffer More than All

Image from LDS Media Library

The crucifixion is always a tender moment in the scriptures, especially when really picturing the suffering that Christ went through in those final days of his life. He was mocked, most likely starved, and scourged with a whip that ripped through his skin until his entire back was an open wound. 

The Romans took particular care to make his suffering even more acute. They crowned him with thorns and laid a robe onto the festering wound on his back, only to rip the robe off again after blood had surely dried on it.

And after all that, it didn't end there. They continued to mistreat him, inducing more pain that I could ever imagine experiencing. He was even expected to carry his own cross! It's no wonder, after the loss of blood and the lack of food, that Christ was unable to endure the cross's burden.

It wasn't until I had really thought about what Christ was going through—the complete agony he must have felt—that I realized the significance of this passage in Luke 23, as he is walking (staggering) to Golgotha:

27 And there followed him a great company of people, and of women, which also bewailed and lamented him.
28 But Jesus turning unto them said, Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves, and for your children.
29 For, behold, the days are coming, in the which they shall say, Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bare, and the paps which never gave suck.

 When I read this, I was absolutely blown away. Here was Christ, going through a horrifying experience, and he says "Weep not for me"! Of all people, he certainly deserved the sympathy. All the world should have been weeping for him. But Christ didn't care one wit about the suffering he was going through. Instead, he was still thinking of others, concerned for their welfare more than his own. In the highest point of his agony, he turned to those he loved and felt sorrow for them.

And here I am, laying in my bed bemoaning my upset stomach and wanting all the attention of my husband, thinking, "You should feel sorry for me!" How pitiful. How humbling.

It makes me want to lay all of my pains and my fears at Christ's feet and say, "I know this isn't much, but I can't get through this without you. I need you more than you ever needed me."

The miracle of his Atonement is that Christ truly suffered more than all, and yet his love for us ran more deep than any pain.

A Perfect Trainer: The Miracle of the Donkey

From LDS Media Library

When I was young, I was obsessed with horses. I read every equestrian story I could get my hands on, loving every one of the horses introduced in them.

But there's one aspect of the stories that I always thought was portrayed a little unrealistically—a romanticized version of the truth. A good majority of them always told of an inexperienced horse rider who sees their dream horse and their heart flutters. Suddenly there's nothing that rider would rather do than get on that horse. Then, in almost every story, they are somehow able to train the horse through sheer emotional connection.

It's a beautiful story that any girl could fall in love with. But it's just a fantasy, right? No one would really feel such an immediate connection to a horse, or be able to get on its back with little to no effort. Right?

Turns out, there's an equestrian story just like this, based on true events, right in the New Testament. I never would have realized it without my professor pointing it out to me this past week. But it's right there, in Mark 11:1–10.

This is the story of Christ riding into Jerusalem on a donkey (it's not a horse, but it's close enough to illustrate my point). Not only was this a donkey that he had never ridden before, it was a colt—one that no one had ridden before. So Christ asks that his disciples go and get an unbroken colt so that he can ride it into Jerusalem.

If I were the apostles, I would be wondering what his plan was. How was Christ going to be able to ride into Jerusalem on a colt that had no training on carrying a man on its back? This is where my professor pointed out that the very fact that Jesus made it to Jerusalem on that donkey was a miracle. He should not have been able to ride that colt without at least a little while of training.

But then, that's not even the end of the miracle. What happens when Christ enters Jerusalem is just as astounding.

8 And a very great multitude spread their garments in the way; others cut down branches from the trees, and strawed them in the way. 

 9 And the multitudes that went before, and that followed, cried, saying, Hosanna to the Son of David. . . . (Matthew 21)

So now, this poor colt, with a weight on his back he's never felt before, is walking into a huge crowd of people yelling, waving sticks at him, and putting clothes on the ground in front of him. He must have been terrified! And yet, there's never any mention of the colt freezing, bolting, or showing any other sign of fear. For the man on his back was no ordinary man.

The man on his back was his Savior. And as long as Christ had the reigns, the colt had nothing to fear.

I am the colt in this story. I am new and inexperienced when it comes to eternal things. There are moments in my life when I feel overwhelmed with everything that is going on around me, and it makes me want to freeze in my tracks.

But as long as I let Christ have the reigns in my own life, I know that I will be able to make it to Jerusalem, to the temple, and to God with no need to fear. He will lead me there, because he is the perfect trainer. 

Mother, Thy Faith Will Make Thee Whole

Photo by Dawid Sobolewski on Unsplash

Being a mother—this has always terrified me. The discomfort and pain, the lack of sleep, the complete surrender of personal desires... That doesn't sound very appealing. Not to mention, I feel incredibly under-qualified. If motherhood was a job and I had to turn in a resume, there would be no reason for Heavenly Father to hire me.

And yet, he will anyway. Me, an under-qualified candidate who has always dreaded the idea of having children.

Someday, I'll be a mother. Weird.

But this post isn't for me. I write this for all of those young mothers that I know. The mothers that I see trying so hard to raise their children and still stay on their feet. They all look so strong! These new mothers take the pain and the fatigue with such grace. Yet, I know it can't be easy.

If they are anything like I would be, they don't feel qualified for the work they are doing. It must be overwhelming and just plain exhausting.

If I were to send these amazing mothers anywhere, it would be to Elder Jeffrey R. Holland's talk, "Because She Is a Mother." When I become a mother myself, I think I might listen to this every day. It's that powerful and reassuring.

The part that stood out to me this time around was the very end, when Elder Holland compares mothers to the woman in Matthew 9:20-22 who had the faith to be healed, but did not feel worthy enough to approach the Savior directly. I had never thought about it before, but this woman is so similar to the mothers I know: She did everything in her power to find the cure to her disease, hiring doctor after doctor, taking medicine after medicine. I'm sure that she prayed to Heavenly Father for help during those 12 years of sickness. Any mother will do the same, doing everything in her power to raise her children the best she can.

And just like with the woman in the Bible, the answer comes in Christ. He is the healer, both physically and spiritually. If you think about it, mothers really do experience miracles every day—how else would they be able to keep going with little sleep and no time for themselves? That, to me, sounds like a miracle in which the body is literally being healed. So too can mothers, like the woman in the Bible, be spiritually healed as well.

So to all the mothers out there who are feeling a little overworked, "You are doing God's work. You are doing it wonderfully well. He is blessing you and He will bless you even—no, especially—when your days and your nights may be the most challenging. Like the woman who anonymously, meekly, perhaps even with hesitation and some embarrassment, fought her way through the crowd just to touch the hem of the Master's garment, so Christ will say to the women who worry and wonder and sometimes weep over their responsibility as mothers, 'Daughter, be of good comfort; thy faith hath made thee whole'" (Holland).

Faith Not to Be Healed

Photo by Silvestri Matteo on Unsplash

Do I have the faith to be healed? More importantly, do I have the faith not to be healed?

Elder Bednar caused me to ask that question way back in 2013, when he gave the devotional "That We Might 'Not . . . Shrink' (D&C 19:18)."

Just yesterday, I was reminded of that question again, and it's been stuck in my mind ever since. Do I have the faith to keep love in my heart, even when things don't go how I want them to? 

My biggest question is whether or not I have the faith to face my worst fears. Sometimes I'm not so sure. Whenever I imagine my fears becoming reality, I freeze up and plead to God to not let that happen. 

But what if it did?

Like it did with the leprous man in Matthew 8:1-4, who had every Jew's worst nightmare happen to him. My professor described the leper's experience in a way that became more real to me: This man had a life. He likely had a family. Until one day, when he notices a little patch of white on his finger and thinks, "No. Please, no." Soon it begins to spread, and as soon as anyone else sees, he's immediately ostracized—from family, from friends, from work.

From that point on, it's a done deal. Once pronounced unclean, there's no going back. No farewell party with the family, no packing of any bags. Suddenly, cruelly, the leper is yanked out of his world and left to suffer alone, literally (and metaphorically) falling apart from the inside out. 

What hope he must have felt when he heard of a man called Jesus, the Messiah, a performer of miracles. This was his chance! His chance to get to see his family again, to be accepted by his friends, even just to have a day without pain.

And yet, when he approaches Jesus, the humility and faith that he shows is incredible. For even after all of the suffering he has been through, even with the knowledge that Christ has healed others, he doesn't feel entitled. He begins his plea with, "If thou wilt." A pure sign of faith—the faith not to be healed.

What would have been the outcome if Christ had told this man no? Of course, he would have been disappointed, perhaps shattered for a time. But with such strong faith, he still would have continued to worship the Lord no matter what the outcome.

Though it scares me to think about it, I know that I will do the same. When the time comes that my worst fears come to light—for they will—my faith in God will not waver. Will my heart break? Yes. Will my world crumble? Yes. I don't expect otherwise. But even through all of that, I will still know that God is there and that I have a Savior who wants to help me.

Eventually, after the trial of my faith, my miracle will come.