As I’ve finally begun to feel accustomed to the ill-fitting costume of adulthood, I’ve noticed a new vulnerability to a kind of pessimism that has never tempted me before. Having spent the first 25 years of my life dreaming and expecting, I have come to the point where the dreams and expectations must be realized or discarded forever. You can guess which of those two outcomes is the more frequent.
I’ve never been a big dreamer. For whatever reason, one of the very most important dreams in my life is a house on a large, flat lot, enclosed somewhere among some mature trees and shrubs.
Not sure why it’s so important for me to have a big, flat yard of just plain lawn, but there are few ambitions I’ve spent more energy scheming for. In fact, I really haven’t bothered to visualize the house– it might be a trailer for all I know. But it’s surrounded by some very soft, very mowable deep green grass that demands to be experienced barefoot.
Now, space around the city is filling up. Lots are shrinking and prices are skyrocketing. Cookie cutter builders buy up all the land and make you choose between floor plans one, two, or three; and the “best” lots are scraped into the sides of cliffs, where kids playing soccer in the yard spend more time rappelling than running. Sigh.
The wide open spaces of my youth have disappeared. The innocent night games have been replaced with less-than-innocent video games. The easiness and openness and plenty that characterized my world as a child have been replaced by claustrophobia, scarcity, and an instinct to grab whatever one can for oneself. Nothing is as it was– nothing is as I was certain it would be. How did it get this way? Or maybe the better question: How did I get this way?
There are scriptures that appear to hold the answers, but I can’t seem to unlock them. One of my old mission favorites:
Wherefore, whoso believeth in God might with surety hope for a better world, yea, even a place at the right hand of God, which hope cometh of faith, maketh an anchor for the souls of men, which would make them sure and steadfast, always abounding in good works, being led to glorify God.
What world can I hope will get better? Can I have a surety that this world will be better? Or am I hoping for another, entirely different ‘better world?’ I would love it if I could rely on this scripture in imagining a place to raise my family in innocence and serenity, but that reading might be wresting the words from their millennial meaning.
In short, I understand that the gospel creates ultimate optimists– people who understand the happiness that eventually awaits. But what assurance do we get from the gospel that our present toil can be beautiful and sweet? Is there warrant for short-term optimism in the gospel? Where do you find it?
Saints of all epochs have found ways of using the gospel to quiet present-tense uneasiness. Some have tried to rise above it by predicting the millennium and living in the future. Others have exulted in the discomfort, feeling purified by the scratches and burns. Still others have withdrawn from the rock-strewn path altogether, opting to live only on a soft, sanitary spiritual plane. But I am comforted by none of these. None of them will give me my shady lawn with space to punt the football.
I know God’s spiritual promises, and I love them. Perhaps my sepia dreams would blow to dust if I could see the entirely new colors of the worlds he has in store for us in the eternities. In fact, I’m sure they would. But today I want a reason to hope for a better this world, and without some assurance from Him, I can’t think where else to find one.
Or maybe these dreams are a part of the bundle that he expects me to set on the altar, to be replaced by some greater comfort. Today I read how Alma made a similar exchange:
And now it came to pass that Alma, having seen the afflictions of the humble followers of God, and the persecutions which were heaped upon them by the remainder of the people, and seeing all their inequality, began to be very sorrowful; Nevertheless, the Spirit of the Lord did not fail him.
The joy of the Spirit in the midst of frustration and failure. Something I need to spend some more time seeking. I’ll be interested to see whether it fills the void left by blessings-hoped-for-but-abandoned, or if it just tides you over until the real glory kicks in. Meanwhile, good night for now. Rex and I are going to walk four blocks to go punt in the park.