Krista Maurer

A Broken Piece of Bread & A Thimble Full of Water

Posted on March 3, 2010 by Krista

When the sacrament finally made its way to me, I felt as though I needed to grab a handful of bread from the tray and eat it all at once. And when the water came, I wanted to drink a gallon. That’s the only way I can describe the feeling I felt Sunday morning after three days of memorializing my friend. It was a whirlwind of crying and hugging and reminiscing and eulogizing and laughing and crying some more.

The funeral was Friday. The burial Saturday. If I thought any semblance of composure I had left shattered when baby Sarah started crying “mommy!” when the casket was rolled away, I can’t even begin to describe the feeling I felt as the red Tennessee dirt fell, filling the hole in the ground, but breaking a new one in my heart.

It wasn’t supposed to end this way. When you believe in miracles, you’re supposed to get miracles. By Sunday I was drained.

I craved the healing power of Christ’s atonement in the worst way. I needed Him to fix the gaping hole left in my heart, and in my faith. And so yes, I contemplated taking more than my fair share of the bread and water. After all, isn’t that what it’s for?

My heart still questions. My eyes still cry. But life has gone on. It has to, I know. And yet, I want to stop and scream sometimes. “Don’t you know?! Don’t you know that my friend just died? Don’t you realize that while you are worrying about silly, stupid things that a good man just lost his love and three little ones just lost their mother?”

But instead, I bow my head. And I pray. That, just like He fed the 5,000 with a few loaves and fishes, He can fill me with just a broken piece of bread and a thimble full of water.

The Glass

Posted on October 8, 2009 by Krista

She awoke to light. The golden rays of dawn slipping through the blinds like silky legs under lingerie. Never an early riser, she blinked, softly, slowly, again and again until morning registered. Still not ready to leave the cocoon of cotton and fleece she’d wound herself into, she closed her eyes again, and sank deeper into the warmth.

To anyone else, the quiet might have seemed deafening, but having lived alone for a few years she’d come to understand that stillness isn’t silence and that lack of noise doesn’t mean lack of sound. If you listen long enough, with patience for the moment, you eventually notice the rhythm of your breath, the hum of a honeybee, the wind chime of leaves, the quiet groan of a settling house, God’s whisper in your heart. She called it the symphony of life and this morning she was content to enjoy the show from her bed for as long as possible.

But soon the call of day beckoned more loudly than the small, lovely sounds of morning and arching her back, extending her limbs, she rose from the downy pillows like the opening of a flower’s first petals in Spring. She sat, feet dangling over the side of her bed, gingerly tilting her head from one side to the other, trying to expel the night from her stiff frame.

Had she dreamed? Perhaps. Though she rarely, if ever, remembered night visions. She was more of a daydreamer, often lost in her own world, even when fully present in the one surrounding her.

Inviting the day with one, long deep breath, she set her feet on the floor and made her way to the kitchen. A lover of routines, but by no means rigid, she always followed a particular set of tasks whether she realized it or not. Standing at the sink she slid back the curtains and opened the window. The sun had not yet burned away the cool morning air and it filled the room from floor to ceiling with the opportunities of a new day.

She smiled to herself for no particular reason and reached for a glass. She marveled as the light passed through it, refracting in different directions, sending beams onto the counter. Had she been any less of the woman she was, she might have thought about how, much like the tall, clear glass in her hand, her life was a bit empty at the moment. At least that’s how it looked to many an outside observer.

But she had never been one to think in such a way. Certainly she’d had her moments of worry and concern. Certainly she’d felt alone at times. Certainly she’d wondered how to move forward. But never had she felt empty.

She reached for the faucet and began to fill the glass with water. Higher and higher it rose, almost to the top, but for some reason, on this morning, she didn’t move. Instead, she watched as the water began to flow past the rim, down the sides, and over her fingers. Rushing through her like a flood of energy, love and possibilities, the water poured, and she–happy, bright, ready–stood thankful for the overflowing glass she held tightly in her hands.

The Moment I Became An Adult

Posted on June 11, 2009 by Krista

I’ve always been a planner – probably because of the security and control I feel in knowing what lies ahead. In fact I can’t remember a time when my Franklin wasn’t color coded and neatly divided (I tried the Palm and the Blackberry. But what can I say, I like paper and ink). There’s never been a day not filled with perfectly penned responses carefully thought out as I lay awake each night preparing for the coming day. There have even been moments when I’ve asked myself, “Krista, if such and such happened … What would you do? What would you say?” in the off chance such an event ever randomly did happen. Bottom line—I find comfort in the ability to remain poised and collected.

And so, since I plan, my adulthood was set in order way back in childhood. I had thought it all through, visualized it, written it down, and discussed it freely as though my name was Fate. I would go to college, become a high-school English teacher, get married when I was twenty-one, start having children when I was twenty-three, return to the Carolina coast and build our first home when I was twenty-five—for which I have all the color swatches, upholstery samples, furniture styles, and blue prints neatly filed—and then, finally, after working so hard to plan and accomplish, I would confidently walk up to adulthood, calmly introduce myself, and say, “I am here. I have arrived. I am now an adult.” After all that’s what adulthood is isn’t it?

Well. I’m thirty. I’m single. I have no children, and while I am a college graduate, I majored in journalism and work for a recording company in marketing. I live in Utah, and I am a renter. Please don’t misunderstand, I have a wonderful life and incredible opportunities, but somewhere along the way, adulthood tiptoed his way behind me (of course it wasn’t me who raced ahead of him), and it is he who taps me on the shoulder—every day in fact.

Despite my countless hours planning, despite my firm and adamant discussions with the future about how it was supposed to turn out, “it” didn’t listen and I don’t think I ever became an adult. It became me.

But if I was forced to pin-point a specific moment, maybe it was the morning I woke up to find a wrinkle in my smile and I raced to my nearest Mary Kay consultant to buy every anti-aging creme, serum, lotion, and spray she had in stock.

Or maybe it was the day they offered me a full-time job and I found myself diving head first into the depths of health insurance, salary bids, and dental plans. Maybe it was the day my dad handed me my taxes and said he wasn’t declaring me as a dependent nor was he filing them for me anymore. Or what about the time I went on vacation, paid for the whole thing myself, didn’t tell anyone I was leaving, and didn’t have to make sure it was OK.

Perhaps it was that hot summer day after graduating when I went looking for my first real place—you know, the non-student, unfurnished, fifty-percent chance your neighbor’s crazy housing. After my first appointment with a landlord I slowly climbed into my car, rested my head on my steering wheel, and crumbled as I watched my plans plunge into a tiny puddle on the floor, because I hadn’t thought to prepare for how it might feel to look for my first home … alone. I hadn’t thought to plan Plan B.

But then there was also that business meeting where I was the only girl surrounded by men my father’s age and I had to tell them how things were going to happen. Or it might have been the day I bought a bed, or the day I bought a couch, or the day I bought a vacuum cleaner. Surely you’re an adult when you buy your own vacuum cleaner. Or maybe it was that afternoon when I gave serious thought to retirement and staring my 401-K.

Maybe it was that time I caught a glance of myself in the rear view mirror and my breath caught in my throat because I looked so much like my mom. Maybe it was when 40 didn’t seem so old. Maybe it was the day I fell in love. Maybe it was the day he fell out of love. Maybe it was the day I finally realized he had never loved.

Who knows? But I am coming to the conclusion however, that adulthood has nothing to do with the house, the job, the husband, or even the upholstery. And it probably has nothing to do with age either. Perhaps, just maybe, it has everything to do with not knowing, knowing that you don’t know, and admitting that you don’t.

I really don’t know.

Chapter 1

Posted on June 2, 2009 by Krista

My house is dark and still. Quiet, if not for the hum of cool, clean air pressing its way through the window screen, filling my room with the breath of life. Outside, the wind bends the world to its whim as the rain taps on rooftop, slides down the gutter, and spills into puddles of rippling rest.

I sit, curled beside the open window, watching the sky turn gray, and then grayer. Electric almost, with anticipation–the sky and I.

My life has become dichotomy personified as of late–an island girl, trying to make home in a desert. A sunshine lover, hungry for rain. A responsible adult, wishing for a wind storm in which to lose her caution. A contented woman, dreaming of other paths.

I am reminded of a night, similar to this, wherein I wrote in my journal:

I just deleted three paragraphs of honesty … simply because I’m not ready to be honest. I’m too scared of it right now. Afraid of what it will to do me and where it will put me. But I know I need to write. To get something out of me. And so, I write.

This weekend I’m staying with family friends. Sandra lets me come when I need. She hugs like a mom and listens like a friend. They have a lovely home – quiet and serene with a yard full of Aspens and a trail that leads to the hills. Bill plays the banjo on the porch each night before dinner and I find myself looking forward to it all day.

Friday night I was reading on the porch and stopped to look out over the valley. It was raining lightly and I could tell a storm was coming. I watched the medallion leaves flutter on the Aspen branches, quivering as the wind rushed through them. Maybe they knew a storm was coming too. Maybe they shook with fear. Or maybe they didn’t know at all and were simply dancing, excited for something they didn’t understand.

Their usually white trunks turned seal-slick gray as water streamed from sky to ground. Slippery wet, the rain rolled off their backs sinking deep into the roots. I could feel the wheels of my brain begin to turn. Cranking to draw the parallels. Churning with lessons I ought to learn. But I stopped. I didn’t want to think.

And then I saw it. Right there in front of me. How had I missed it? A perfect little nest. It was empty and I was fascinated. I stood up and leaned over the rail to get closer. Tiny twigs carefully woven, placed, and perched in the crook of a branch. It was lovely. Simply lovely. I wondered how on earth it stayed right there – perfectly balanced without falling. It looked as if nothing at all was supporting it.

The breeze turned cool and I went inside to read. Sandra came to join me. Darkness fell quickly and the wind kicked outside, howling down from the canyon. Rain poured sideways, lightning flashed, and thunder rumbled. As I gazed out the window, I remembered being a little girl huddled under blankets listening to the summer storms shake outside my window. Sandra looked up. “Storms make trees strong,” was all she said, and she turned back to her book. I too returned to the pages in my lap. I still didn’t want to think.

The next morning I woke up wondering and worrying how the nest had fared through the night. I ran upstairs and out to the porch, where there, in the crook of the branch, it sat. Not a twig had blown away. And not only that, but in place of yesterday’s emptiness was a robin. Wide-eyed with amazement, I suppose I leaned too close and startled the tiny bird because she chirped and flew away. And there on top of the twigs and moss sat two little blue eggs … beautiful turquoise … no bigger than a couple of grapes. I offered a silent “thank you” to heaven. I felt as though I had been given a secret view of something special–a quiet peek into an intimate corner of Mother Earth, and I needed to thank the source.

I checked on the eggs all weekend. Not that I could do anything for them. And not that I needed to. They had been created in the midst of a storm and had weathered the wind perfectly fine without me. But I couldn’t help but want to make sure they were okay. It was as if checking on them and finding them safe meant that everything else in the world–my world–was safe too.

I know it all represents something. I’m certain of that. But I still don’t want to think. And I still don’t want to be honest. It’s just too much effort right now and I don’t think I have the stamina to see the corners upon which honesty will shed its light. But I know someday, sooner or later, I will write more. And what I will write will be about a life that quivers when the wind blows through. And about rain that smooths the outer edges as it sinks into the roots. It’ll be about the almost invisible support that cradles and balances the nests I build. About storms that make me stronger, and the quiet, perfect tokens of life found when I look right in front of me. It’ll still be about birds I suppose. But next time it’ll be about me too.

It has been almost three years to the day, since I wrote that journal entry. And someday is here. Later has come. I am ready to write.

… to be continued.

*post edit: I found the pictures we took of the nest.

Lessons Learned from Looking Out My Window

Posted on February 3, 2009 by Krista

Every Tuesday night I attend a religious education class, a.k.a. “institute.” At the end of tonight’s lesson my teacher shared an experience she had had with President Gordon B. Hinckley a short time after she finished writing his biography.

It was a sweet story, nothing monumental, but left me tears none-the-less. Tears for his life. Tears for his goodness. Tears for his love. His example. His service. It has been one year since his passing and while I know that God has given us another prophet whom I wholly love, support and sustain, I cannot help but miss our dear President Hinckley. It’s just a different world without him here.

As I sat, tears falling, thinking on this great man who did so much to share the gospel of Christ, I remembered my own “personal” encounter with President Hinckley …

It was the Spring of 2005 and at that time I worked from an office that had a wall of windows on the north side that faced the LDS Church Administration Building on South Temple St. in Salt Lake City, UT. It was a sunny day and I’ll admit, I was gazing not at the computer screen like I ought to have been, but out my window watching the world go by.

A few minutes into my reverie, the doors to the Administration Building opened and out came an older man with a cane. I knew the form and face well. Yes, it was President Hinckley. An immediate smile came to my lips and I could feel my heart get a little soft with love. I settled into my chair and just watched.

He had his body guards with him, one on each side and then one trailing behind as he began a “lap” around the gardens to the east of the Joseph Smith Memorial Building. He stopped every twenty feet or so, pointed at a cluster flowers, smiled and talked to his guards.

About half way to the Church Office Building on the north side of the square, there was a young mother with a toddler in a stroller. As the prophet came near, she stooped down and began talking to her little boy and pointing to the prophet. I imagine a beautifully simple lesson was being taught. President Hinckley stopped and talked to them for a moment, and then continued around the garden.

A few minutes later, he’d made it almost all the way around the garden patch still stopping and pointing out particularly lovely bunches of flowers every so often when, at the South Temple St. crosswalk, a bride and groom stopped him to requested a picture. President Hinckley happily smiled and posed and spoke to them for a moment.

As he continued on his way back to the Administration Building, I noticed that one body guard always trailed about 15 feet behind. I also noticed that sometimes President Hinckley would use his cane, other times he wouldn’t. But eventually they made it back to the Admin. Building and were quickly up the stairs and inside.

I sat in my chair for quite a few moments after that, thinking about what I’d observed from my little perch. And this is what I learned from my ten minute observation.

Lesson #1. Take a walk in the middle of the day – even if you’re at work.

Lesson #2. Stop every 20 feet and look at the flowers – not just once, but every 20 feet. There’s a new bloom just that often. And talk about them – the way they look, the way they smell. I know it’s cliche in every way to say we should stop and smell the roses, but how many of us actually do it? Honestly. When was the last time you noticed a garden of flowers, or the sunset, or a baby’s toes, or the way the wind feels in your hair, and then actually talked about how wonderful it was with someone else?

Lesson #3. Stoop down and teach. Literally and figuratively. Teach the things that matter. Teach the things that are simple and true. I imagine all that young mother said was, “Honey that’s the prophet. Look. He talks to Jesus. He teaches us what to do.” (or something along those lines). Point your children (or whomever if you/I don’t have kids yet) toward the people who will point them to Christ.

Lesson #4. You can’t point without looking at what you’re pointing to.

Lesson #5. Start your marriage right beside the prophet. (and then continue with him)

Lesson #6. Sometimes we may feel like we’re so far behind where we want to be or where we think we ought to be. And sometimes we may feel all alone as we walk. But we just need to look at where we’re walking and who we’re following. Find people worthy of following, look at the steps they’ve already taken, and then take the same ones. That body guard walked every step President Hinckley did, just 15 steps behind … but eventually they both made it back to the Administration Building, with President Hinckley waiting at the door for him.

Lesson #7. Sometimes we might need to use a cane and sometimes we don’t. It’s OK to use a cane sometimes. Give it a go without it too.

President Hinckley had no idea that I was watching him, soaking up anything I could learn from him that day. It is a treasured memory filled with lessons I’ll keep for always. And tonight I was reminded of why I love our late prophet so much. It’s because he loved us and he loved the Lord and did all he could to help us know Him.

I want to be more like that.

At The Ocean’s Edge

Posted on December 28, 2008 by Krista

The air was filled with the familiar scents of my youth–the sweet stench of oyster beds and marsh mud laced with salt water.

The sun was high and bright, and as I emerged from the shadows of the sidewalk awnings, the light hit my face, my head involuntary tilting back so that every curve and angle of my face had full advantage of the warmth. My eyes closed and I took a breath so deep it felt like my lungs were in my toes. Within moments, I could feel the yellow rays seeping into my pores, probing past my skin, reaching through my muscles, and settling into my core.
For when the sun calls, my soul responds.

And the sky. The sky was …

Cloudless.
A perfect blue.
The kind of blue I dream in.

I’ve walked those docks a million times. They were an extension of home. In fact, during the stifling months of summer, I often spent more time there, at the ocean’s edge, than I did inside our four humble walls on Indian Trail. I grew up living a life others envy. An island girl with a captain for a dad. And today, as I visited this truly, enchanting place, the nethermost regions of my soul came alive.

As soon as I placed one foot on the deck, my body instinctively knew how to respond to the gentle rocking of boat in water as waves lapped against the hull. I was like a baby in a cradle. Fitting, seeing that as a baby, my mother would put me in the cradle she kept in the engine room while she and my dad greeted tourists and showed them the dream world we lived in. And there I would sleep, rocking back and forth, back and forth, as we cruised down the sound. To this day, there is nothing, not even a Zambian, that can carry me off to golden slumbers like the roar of those Twin Cummins NT8 55 diesel engines.

And so the tour begins …
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and welcome aboard the Holiday. She is safe, sturdy and comfortable, so everyone please sit back, relax and enjoy the cruise. We’re certainly glad everyone could join us for today’s dolphin watch nature tour. I’d like to introduce your crew to you, my name is Captain Mark of Hilton Head Island …”

My sisters and I have Dad’s entire narration memorized by heart. We recite it sometimes, and laugh at its predictability. But sometimes, when I am alone in the desert I now call home, I recite it just so I don’t feel so far away. I recite it so I don’t forget where I come from. So I don’t forget the things I know.

For because of this childhood education, between shrimp boats and slip knots, I can point out a great blue heron, a snowy egret, and a white ibis. I know the average wingspan of a brown pelican and can tell whether the tide is ebbing or flooding. I know when to harvest oysters and can cast a shrimp net with ease. I know how to catch crabs, sand dollars, and starfish. I know my port from my starboard and my bow from my stern. I know which “rope” is the spring line and how many species of shark live in our waters. I know how many acres of saltwater marshes exist in South Carolina and no matter how many times I’ve seen a dolphin surface, I’m always filled with scintillating awe.
After two hours cruising the creek and searching the sound, it was over. All too soon.
In so many ways, my day on the water in this land of perfect charm was … perfect.
It did me good to drink the sun and fill my belly with the lowcountry.
And it does me good to share with you this place from which I come.
Perhaps I’ll share more tomorow. Yes, quite.

(Shelter Cove Harbour, Hilton Head Island)

The Way

Posted on July 17, 2008 by Krista

Allow me to ask a question. I hope you’ll give the answer serious thought.

Is there anything in your life right now that you’d like to change or have different?

Perhaps you are seeking an answer? Or maybe forgiveness? Or are you holding onto forgiveness that needs to be extended? Maybe you are trying to win the battle with an addiction. Maybe you are trying to reach a difficult goal. Maybe you are seeking greater joy or peace or harmony within your home, family, or self. Maybe you are making big life decisions and are wondering which path to take. Maybe you want to pursue a different profession. Or maybe you are trying to overcome a fear. Perhaps you would like more good friends. Maybe you are wondering when the ache in your heart will finally dull and go away. Maybe you are wondering when the tears will stop. Maybe you are in a relationship that needs healing. Maybe illness and fatigue are currently a part of your daily life. Maybe you are seeking a certain blessing to come your way. The list of changes we each might like to see in our lives is endless.

When December 31, 2007 arrived, I sat down to write my New Year’s resolutions just like I always do every New Year’s Eve. I’d been thinking about them for a while, and there were lots of things about my life that I wanted to be different. But when I sat down to write them there was only one resolution that mattered. I had examined my life much in the preceding months and I had come to the conclusion that I wasn’t who I wanted to be. I wondered where the bright-eyed, idealistic college graduate had gone, along with all the plans and goals and ways I was going to change the world. I couldn’t see the perfect-faith-filled returned missionary anymore. By no means had I become a horrible person, but I wasn’t who I had been in years past, and I hadn’t become who I thought I would once I “became a grown up.” Life had happened. I’d gotten a real job with real stress and heavy demands. I’d accumulated bills and responsibilities and busyness. And the busier I got, the less I seemed like me. And it seemed like the farther I got from “me,” the farther I got from heaven too. So come January 1, things were going to change. But like I said only one resolution mattered. And so I wrote:

This year I will know the Savior better.

In the weeks that followed, I tried to put a dedicated emphasis on that goal. I reimplimented habits like daily scripture reading, regular prayer, and reading the lessons for each Sunday. And I felt better about life in small measure. But I still felt as though I was far. The intensity of the Spirit wasn’t permeating my life like it had just a few years before. And so – I continued to clean out the cobwebs. I identified things that had crept into my life which were making it difficult for me to always have the Spirit – things like sins, weaknesses, imperfections, and grudges. I began to offer them up to heaven with the humblest heart I think I’ve ever had. I was so saddened by the weeds I had let overtake my heart.

I think I knew I needed change for a long time, but when I’m honest about why I didn’t do it sooner, it was because I was scared – scared to give the Lord this tattered, broken life. I was afraid piecing it back together would hurt beyond what I could bear. And I think I was also ashamed. He’s the perfect God of the universe. How could I ask the Lord to fix me, change me, remake me? How could I offer Him anything less than perfection? And so for a long while I tried to rid my life of the busyness and weaknesses on my own, while trying to add back in the joy, service, and dedication – again, on my own. But with the approaching New Year, the pieces began to come together – I couldn’t do it on my own anymore. And I don’t know that I’ve ever wanted to know the Savior more. It’s never mattered more. And I think that’s because I’ve never been more acutely aware of my need for Him. And I told the Lord so. I would do whatever it took. I didn’t care how badly it hurt or how long it would take. I wanted my life to be different. And I would do whatever He asked.

And as I did so, I felt things changing little by little. I found myself happier and more peaceful. Less burdened and more fulfilled. But something was still not right. Like I had hit another wall, where I had offered everything up – my desires, my sins, my weaknesses – but I still wasn’t feeling complete in the process. I kept praying, “What else do I need to do? What is the way to finally achieve what I’m seeking? I’m so close I can feel it. But I feel like there is one last thing. Is it just that I need to give you more time? Do I need to be patient? Or do I need to do something else? Just tell me and I’ll do it. You know I will.”

Now, you must know that I have always been my own worst critic. And, though I would never allow another person to believe this about themselves, I’ve always thought that I needed to do more, work harder, run faster in order to receive the blessing or find forgiveness. I think many of us feel this way simply because we’re so much more aware of our own imperfections. We tend to be hardest on ourselves.

In fact, I’ve often been known to say in prayer, “I haven’t suffered enough for this. If you need to punish me a bit more, I understand.” Or I’ll think to myself, “I need to do this and this and this and this, before I ask for help because certainly I can’t kneel before God if I haven’t read my scriptures, served my neighbor, gone to the temple, and completed my visiting teaching.” And in regards to this resolution as of late, I think I’ve been telling myself that the way to get past the wall is to read more, serve more, try harder. I kept asking, “What more do I need to do?”

But in preparing for this talk I’ve found myself reminded of the lesson the Lord has tried to teach, and re-teach me my whole life. And I think it’s probably the lesson He’ll continue to have to teach me, as I’m obviously not very good at learning it.

Thomas asked, “How can we know the way?”, as he sat with his fellow apostles and their Lord after the supper on the memorable night of betrayal. I revisit the question I began with: Is there anything in your life right now that you’d like to change or have different? If so, “how can we know the way” to do so?

“Christ’s divine answer was: ‘I am the way…’ (John 14:5-6). And so He is! He is the source of our comfort, the inspiration of our life, the author of our salvation. If we want to know our relationship to God, we go to Jesus Christ. If we would know the truth of immortality of the soul, we have it exemplified in the Savior’s resurrection…He is the one Perfect Being who ever walked the earth; the sublimest example of nobility; Godlike in nature; perfect in his love; our Redeemer; our Savior; the immaculate Son of our Eternal Father; the Light, the Life, the Way” (David O. McKay, Teachings of Presidents of the Church: David O. McKay, 2003, 3-4, 5).

And so it is. At both the beginning and the end of my long list of “look what I’ve done Lord to change my life” there stands One. And ultimately, only He can change it. When I face the wall in front of me, it is He who says, “Thy walls are continually before me” (1 Nephi 21:16).

When we are lonely, it is He who says, “and lo, I am with you, even unto the end” (D&C 105:41).

When we are burdened, it is He who says, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:30).

When we wonder which direction to go or choice to make, it is He who says, “Trust in [me] with all thine heart and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge [me], and [I] will direct thy paths” (Proverbs 3:5-6).

When we are seeking greater peace in our homes, families, and hearts, it is He who says, “Learn of me, and listen to my words; walk in the meekness of my Spirit, and you shall have peace in me” (D&C 19:23).

When we are saddened, faced with fear, hurt or illness, it is He who says, “I will not leave you comfortless, I will come to you” (John 14:18).

When our world swirls around us, it is he who “arises, and rebukes the winds and the sea; until there is calm” (Matt 8: 26).

When we don’t feel strong enough to handle what we’ve been given, or face what is ahead, it is He who is our “strength and [our] song” (1 Nephi 22:2).

When we are out of breath, it is God who “breathed … the breath of life” into Adam (Moses 3:70).

When we feel dead, it is He who said, “I am the life” (John 14:6).

When we want, it is He who says, “Ask and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock and it shall be opened unto you” (Matt. 6: 7).

When we feel condemned and ashamed, it is He who says, “neither do I condemn thee” (John 8:11).

When we feel we need to suffer more for our sins, it is He who says, “I have suffered these things for all, that they might not suffer” (D&C 19:16).

When we hunger, it is He who says, “I am the bread of life” (John 6:48).

When we thirst, it is He who says, “whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst” (John 4:14).

When the present seems dark, it is He who says, “I am the light” (3 Ne. 18:16).

When we don’t know the way, it is He who says, “I am the way.” (John 14:6).

“Considering the incomprehensible cost of the Crucifixion and Atonement, I promise you He is not going to turn His back on us now. When He says to the poor in spirit, ‘Come unto me,’ He means He knows the way out and He knows the way up. He knows it because He has walked it. He knows the way because He is the way” (Elder Holland, “Broken Things to Mend,” Liahona, May 2006, 69-71).

There is a journey we are all making. Some of us have the ability really run it. Others of us are slower. Sometimes we walk. Sometimes we’re frozen still, not knowing how to get to the end, or maybe scared to get to the end. But I testify that there is One who stays beside us. He knows the way because He is the way.

His life He gave, once for the world.
Collective majesty.
But today, in quiet moments,
He gave the world to me.

That little poem came to me as I contemplated this Man, this God, my God, my brother, my breath, my light, my life, my way. At every moment of our lives, and I truly believe that it’s every moment, we simply have to let go. We can clean out our lives. We can organize our homes. We can speak kind words. We can pray and read our scriptures and be good people. But at the end of all that, when we stand in front of the wall, or just before the finish line, at those simplest and truest places, it’s He who gives us the world. And He gives it over and over and over. And He loves that! He is the author and the finisher of all things. He is the way. And all He says is, “Come.”

I hope today we can all Come to Jesus … quietly and honestly. That we can bring our fears and our baggage and our sins and our broken lives and give them to him and not take them back and just … believe. Believe that He can not only fix them, but that He wants them.

There is a song I love that says:

Broken clouds give rain
And broken ground grows grain
Broken bread feeds man for one more day

Broken storms yield light
The break of day heals night
Broken pride turns blindness into sight

Broken souls that need His mending
Broken hearts for offering
Could it be that God loves broken things?

Broken chains set free
Broken swords bring peace
Broken walls make friends of you and me

To break the ranks of sin
To break the news of Him
To put on Christ till His name feels broken in

Broken souls that need His mending
Broken hearts for offering
I believe that God loves broken things

And yet, our broken faith, our broken promises
Sent love to the cross
And still, that broken flesh, that broken heart of His
Offers us such grace and mercy
Covers us with undeserving

This broken soul that cries for mending
This broken heart for offering
I’m convinced that God loves broken things
Praise His name – my God loves broken things
(Broken, Kenneth Cope)

I am broken. And I am His. However imperfectly I do that, and believe me, imperfect it is. But I am broken, and I am His. And I know He loves broken me.

Tell me: You thoughts?

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My 5K Marathon

Posted on July 8, 2008 by Krista

“You’ll be glad I stayed,” she said.

“No I won’t,” I replied indignantly. “I gave everyone strict instructions. Remember? ‘Don’t run slower than you usually do just for me.’ I’m slow and I don’t want anyone holding themselves back just because they feel bad leaving me. So go. Please. I know you run faster than this.”

She didn’t answer. She also didn’t increase her pace.

I gave up. Mostly because I can’t talk, breathe, and run all at the same time, but also because I didn’t have energy to waste on arguing. I knew the mountain I had to climb and I didn’t have stamina to spare.

So we ran. But I was annoyed. I didn’t want to hold anyone back. I also didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. I know I run slow – about as slow as the 70-year-old walkers in front of us. But that’s fine. My only goals were to finish in less than forty-five minutes and to run the whole way. Not one step of walking.

At the quarter-mile mark the police officer cording off traffic danced and clapped as we passed. “You go girls! You can do it!”

“I’m gonna need you again in about a mile,” I laughed.

“I’ll be right here on your way back,” she said.

I was keeping an even pace. An even, slow, pace. I knew if I wanted to finish having run the whole way I couldn’t go any faster. But she was still beside me – even as slow as I was.

At mile one we started seeing runners already on their way back. Every so often we’d pass a member of our group and I’d smile, straighten my back, and add a bit more bounce to my step, trying to make it look like I was enjoying this and holding up well.

Why I decided to do this was beyond me. I hate running. But I said I was going to do it. So there I was. Running as best I could. And she was still beside me.

We made it to the half-way point and I was oddly happy to be on the return side meeting people still headed for the turn-around. Not that I was glad they were behind me, but I was just grateful not to be last. I looked to my right and the ocean spread far beneath a cloudy sky. It had seemed crazy to drive so far for such a short race, but now – looking out over the California coastline – it was worth it. Maybe.

I could see mile marker two ahead. I was tired but okay. Two miles was as far as I had ever gone before. I said a quick prayer that I’d be able to go the last mile.

Mile two and a quarter. The mind-talk begins.

I’m really tired. I really want to walk. I don’t think I can do this. I have to walk. Just one step.
No Krista. You can’t.
Heavenly Father please. Help me.
Please …
Please …
Please …
Please help me finish. Help me just do this one thing. Help me do what I said I would do.

I was breathless. “Help me remember why I love this? Tell me again why I’m doing this?”

She began to rattle off the why’s, legitimate or otherwise. I just prayed. And we kept on running.

I don’t remember anything about the space between two-and-a-half and three miles but I know my body gave up and something else took over. My mind perhaps. More likely my spirit. But I was still running. And she was still beside me.

Only one-tenth left. The crowd along the streets got thicker the farther we went.

“You can do it!”
“You’re SO close!”
“The finish line is right there,” they yelled.

They didn’t even know me. And I was practically last. I didn’t know it would feel like this. I couldn’t hold back the tears. I just didn’t know it would feel like this.

I could see the finish line up ahead and my legs voluntarily pumped faster. I couldn’t slow them down. Audible sobs escaped with every gasp for air. Heart racing, I kept pounding forward. She reached over and put her hand on my back.

“I have to stop crying,” I laughed. “I can’t breathe and I can’t see! But I just didn’t know it would feel like this.”

I had never run this fast, or this far, but there I was – three steps away. Three. Two. One. Runner 663: Forty-four minutes and fifty-nine seconds. And there she was – right beside me.

For a minute I was lost in the euphoria and the finishing ribbons and the commotion of it all. But then I heard my name. I looked to my right and there was my group. Four girls jumping up and down, smiling, laughing, cheering as though I’d just finished a marathon. In a way – I had.

I really wasn’t prepared for how it would feel to finish. Truthfully, I wasn’t really prepared for any of it. And I needed a minute alone.

Run slowed to walk and I didn’t stop until I reached the wall by the cliff. Shuddering, I collapsed into a fit of uncontrollable sobs.

Heavenly Father I did it. I finished and I ran the whole way. I did it.
Thank you …
Thank you …
Thank you …
I did what I said I would do.

And I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

Looking back, that race was the most excruciating physical experience I have ever had to that point. I’ve never pushed my body farther or relied so heavily on my spirit. To some it’s only a 5K – a mere 3.1 miles. But to me it represents the depths of my ability and the wellspring of strength from which my soul draws. I’ve done hard things before – but I’ve never reached a point where I was certain I couldn’t go on. I’ve never felt the moment where body ends and spirit transcends. Until that day. May 20, 2006. The day I did what I said I’d do.

***

“You’ll be glad I stayed,” she said. And she was right.

She’ll probably never know just how glad, or how grateful I was – and am – that she stayed. She’ll probably never understand how both she, and those three miles, changed my life for forever. And the funny thing is – the race is over. But she’s still here. Still matching my pace. Still running beside me. Helping me do the things I say I’ll do.

Tell me: Who’s running beside you?

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My Island Home

Posted on July 8, 2008 by Krista

I come from an enchanted island, and thus had an enchanting childhood. Surrounded by the Atlantic and kept from the mainland only by a wildlife refuge and a pair of bridges, it was a place I clamored to escape as a teenager. But now, with my rearview in focus, I see the dream-world I grew up in.

Come. Sit with me … you in your rocking chair and I in mine, and I will tell you of these dreams over a tall glass of lemonade. Close your eyes. Drink the heat. A symphony of crickets and frogs will serenade, and these stories of oceans and skies will rest between us like the glistening air on your skin.

***

I am five. Maybe six. Sunbeams stream through a canopy of oaks kissing everything golden. My bony legs step lightly on the dusty path, fighting the urge to run. I don’t like getting dirt in my shoes. The dock is behind me and the red barn as tall as the pines surrounding just ahead. I look down at my left elbow and run my fingers gently over a little brown birthmark. It reminds me of her, and her name. Again I fight the urge to run. I know she is waiting.

Big, and black, and beautiful, with a lap you could get lost in, Bertha is there just like she always is with my special plate. The same plate she always sets aside just for me. Extra cornbread. She knows it’s my favorite. I eat every crumb. There in the bigness, and safety, of her lap.

***

I am eleven. Leah is my best friend because we both love to paint. Today we decide to sneak through the fence and explore under the bridge. The woods don’t seem as treacherous now that we’re eleven. Tiny drops of sweat trickle down the middle of my back. Finally we make it to the bridge and the water passes in and out over our toes.

All afternoon we pace up and down the shore, combing the broken oysters for jewels. We laugh, and talk the way only eleven-year-old girls can. The world speeds by in cars overhead and time wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for our stomachs. Dinner will be ready soon, so with sun-pinkened noses we head for home. Running fast, holding tight to my treasures, this has been the best day of the summer. I have a jar full of shark teeth and mermaid fingernails.

***

I am twenty-one. Standing beside my dad. We’re on Bertha’s island again – but she’s not here anymore. I secretly wish for her cornbread. Behind us streams the chatter and laughter from the barn. This place is a novelty to them, the tourists. An island lost in time. But for us … it’s the essence of our home.

Flaming orange, the sun shoots blazing pink heat across the sky as it disappears into the sea. Seagulls fly overhead and a pair of dolphin swim lazily in the Sound. Fiddler crabs scurry underneath a warped dock and to our left an oak tree dripping with Spanish Moss reaches her bony fingers out over the marsh.

“This is what you’ll miss when you’re gone,” he finally says.

He was right.

Tell me: What memories do you have of your home or childhood?

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