Has it already been ten years? I still remember the feeling of shock I
experienced when my car finally came to a halt, wrapped around that cement
poll. Safety glass – the remains of my
windshield and a couple of windows – was everywhere, and for one terrifying
minute I was convinced I was paralyzed, certain that that shooting pain in my
back was a sign that my spine was going to shatter the second I moved. My car had fishtailed, I’m still not sure
why, and after several brilliant overcorrections, I plowed through two chain
link fences before coming to a stop in someone’s front yard.
I began honking the horn frantically. After a couple of minutes a red pick up truck
flew past me, stopped about a hundred yards down the road, and then slowly
reversed. The three guys inside rolled
down their window as they passed me a second time and asked a question that
resonates with me more today then it did then: “Are you ok?”
Are you ok?
I was terrified. My
car was totaled. But I was alive. I shouldn’t have been. But I was.
Had it not been for that stupid cement poll, my car would have kept
rotating straight into a telephone poll.
But it didn’t. I was ok.
I’ve thought about that accident a lot over the last
decade. In fact, every Thanksgiving
since then I’ve made it a habit of publically posting a list of things I am
grateful for. This year is no different,
but given some of the experiences Kindra and I have had over the last couple of
years, I find myself grateful for the things that haven’t gone right in my life.
I find myself grateful for my trials that have helped forge me into the
person I am today.
I’m grateful that I crashed my car ten years ago. The experience has certainly made me a little
more introspective . . . a little more grateful just to be alive. But that accident has also contributed to
some of the choicest blessings in my life.
I became close friends with Kindra, the love of my life, because I
needed a ride to the temple in college.
Would that have ever happened if I had taken a car to college? Would we be married today?
I am grateful that I did not get the Morehead Scholarship to
UNC. I was finalist for it my senior
year, and being rejected from the program was a huge blow to my
self-esteem. I struggled with feelings
of inadequacy and depression for months after the fact. But, I was really arrogant in high school,
and that rejection letter was a real wake up call. I don’t know what sort of person I’d have
become had I been a Morehead Scholar, but I think I’d be a lot more difficult
to live with. They really brainwash you
during the finalist weekend, and I definitely drank the kool-aid. They convinced me that the Morehead would
change my life, and if I didn’t get selected, my life probably wasn’t worth
changing. But . . . the only time I ever
considered postponing my mission was during the week that I thought I was going
to be selected as a Morehead. Would I
have gone a year later? At all? Either way, so many of the friends I have
today – Lila, Jose, Fabiana, Ely, Ernesto y Gricielda, Ari, not to mention my
companions – I would have never met. My
life would be completely different.
I am so grateful I was attacked while in Uruguay. I am so grateful I lost my tooth.
I am grateful I went to law school. It is difficult to describe just how much of
an emotional roller coaster the experience is to someone who hasn’t lived
it. I was close to a nervous break down
more than a few times, and I felt myself chewed up, stretched, and then spit
back out. But, I am better for the wear
and tear. My mind is sharper, my
opinions more nuanced, my judgment more reserved. It has also blessed me with the opportunity
to work to promote religious liberty, both in the United States and
abroad. It really shaped me (and helped
me make some great friends along the way.)
I am grateful it took me as long as it did to secure a
clerkship. I sent out hundreds of
applications. To Arkansas. Alaska.
California. Louisiana. Puerto Rico.
Guam. You name it. But, things kept going wrong with my
applications. I had more than one
emotional break down during 2L year as the rejection letters kept rolling
in. I was humiliated by my inability to
secure a job. But, had I had the success
I desperately wanted when I wanted it . . . Kindra and I wouldn’t be in living
in Detroit right now. We’d be somewhere
else, and not members of the Detroit River Branch. I wouldn’t be branch mission leader. I wouldn’t be home teaching companions with a
Congolese refugee. I wouldn’t be working
in the temple. I wouldn’t be teaching
Sunday School. And because of that . . .
I suspect I wouldn’t feel as close to God or be as happy as I am right
now. I think I have felt more content,
more consistently over the last three months than I have since coming home from
my mission. And that contentment has
absolutely nothing to do with my job or economic stability.
I am grateful that Kindra and I don’t have kids right
now. That is tremendously hard thing to
say. Dealing with infertility has been
the hardest thing I have ever done. It
is a hell that cannot be described to people who have not endured it. But . . . because we do not have kids right
now, at this moment, we have been blessed with a greater ability to serve. We’re able to be temple workers, and be in
the House of the Lord every Saturday morning.
We’re able to work more frequently with the missionaries. We’re able to spend more time with each
other, get out of debt faster, and have adventures that, while not impossible,
would be more difficult with a baby-on-board.
I still desperately want to be a father, but I recognize the serene
blessings I have received because I
have been asked to wait for that stage of life.
And I sense that this tour of duty in parental purgatory is going to
make us into a better mom and dad. I
think we will appreciate our children more – however they come into our family
– and be more grateful when they come.
In a similar vein, I am grateful for the severe trial of
faith I have experienced over the last year.
This time last year (in part because of not having kids), I felt as if
my faith was collapsing . . . and it only got worse as the months went on. But, as I have slowly emerged from that
darkness, I have found a great serenity in belief. My testimony feels different . . . more
grounded in the Savior and his atonement than it was before. More secure.
More rich. But, I also developed a greater understanding and love for those who
struggle with faith and the Church than I did before. I feel less judgmental, and more desirous to
help those who doubt. Not to simply
explain away their fears and apprehensions, but to comfort them, to cry with
them, and to assure them that they belong.
To help them believe. To help
them hope . . . even if they can’t say they know.
I am grateful that God is not content with my vision of my
future. I am grateful he is not content
with my vision of myself. He is the
great chess master. The master
carpenter, who sometimes cuts me, hammers me, nails me. It hurts sometimes, but he is constructing
something much bigger than I can see.
It’s all in the blueprints. He is
making me like him . . . one tiny nail at a time. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
I’m OK.
