connecting the dots

On a cold day in March, a girl sat on a train, feeling like her stomach was tied into knots. She didn't know at the time, but she was days away from what would become the most difficult breakup up to that point in her life; what she did know was that something was wrong, and she didn't know how to fix it.

She knew it wasn't a coincidence when she saw the missionaries.

They came in droves from the bus to the train, wheeling their many suitcases into the train car. Their eyes were bright, maybe a little nervous. They were heading by train from the Missionary Training Center to the Salt Lake City International Airport, where they'd fly to their respective missions.

The two that sat down across from our heroine were going to Cambodia. One was tall, with glasses; the other was silent, shorter, blond. "Hey," the one with the glasses said.

"Hi," she said back, trying not to meet their eyes. As the train pulled out of the station, the elder asked her, "are you okay?"

As I feel is so often the lot of missionaries, the dam burst within her, spilling all of the fear and anxiety she was feeling onto them. As is also on-brand for missionaries, they listened with a patience that belied their less than twenty years.

"Can I read you a scripture?" offered the bespectacled missionary to the distraught young woman as she finished, weeping. She nodded, needing it.

The scripture was one of the comforting type that reminds us that God is in charge, that we can trust Him, that everything has a purpose, almost especially the hardest parts of life. It was exactly, without a doubt, the very thing this heartbroken, uncertain little lady needed to hear.

One breakup, one trip abroad, and nearly seven months later, that same girl sat on the train, exhausted after a long, good day of work and class. She was happier than she ever could have imagined when those missionaries sat down across from her all those months ago. Her heart had changed; she had come to understand her own value, and although she was still learning how to trust the plan God has for her, she experienced very real joy, independent of anyone else. The breakup that had seemed like the end of the world had since become a memory of what was necessary for her to recover the pieces of herself she'd lost to time.

As she sat there, talking to a loved one on the phone, a figure boarded the train -- a familiar figure, a tall figure with glasses on.

It was the very missionary who months ago had promised her not that God would fix her failing relationship, but that God would mend her broken heart, would make all things right in the end, that He wouldn't let anything happen to her that He couldn't also make into a powerful testament of love and kindness and divine awareness. The very missionary who reached downward to a sinking soul to pull her back into the boat.

After a hurried goodbye to her dear one on the phone, she crossed the aisle and sat across from this young man. "Seven months ago you sat across from me and you told me I was going to be okay again when I really wasn't sure if I would," she said.

He remembered her.

After some small talk involving school and work, she felt to tell him, "Man, God loves you so much. I know that can be really difficult to feel."

And the dam broke. As is so often the lot of missionaries, nametagged or not, this young man let the pain and bitterness of what he felt was a failed mission spill onto this changed young woman. He told me he'd not been active for six months. "My heart stopped four times on my mission," he said, his voice becoming hard. "I gave literally everything, including my life, four times, and what do I have to show for it? I can't go to church because I have panic attacks and PTSD. I'm so angry." The blessings of a mission had not come to this boy; instead of the galvanizing effect much experience, he was simply broken, shattered, lost.

And I have to admit that in that moment, the words I spoke were not mine; they belonged to Someone with far more wisdom than I have. "So you can't go to church," I told him, and he looked at me with incredulity, almost derision. "The Lord cares more about your heart than your behavior," I promised, echoing that same friend I'd hung up on to talk to him.

I told him to pray. "You don't have to say words to pray," I told him. "And you should be as honest with God as possible. He wants to hear about your pain."

He kind of scoffed at this. "You think God wants to hear about how pissed I am? About how much I hate Him right now?"

"Yes, I think so," I said. "You're His son. He wants to hear it from you."

I then testified to Him of the hope and healing he could experience in the future if he didn't give up on himself. "I honestly am happier now than I ever have been, and I had no way of knowing seven months ago that this is where I would be now. You just don't know what beautiful things are in store for you," I told him with a smile, and his eyes filled with tears.

"It's like you're reading my mind," he said.

"God knows you," I replied, "and there's no way this is a coincidence." I knew that as much as I knew it the first time I'd met him; and here we were again, and it was like I had switched sides. Suddenly I was telling him everything he told me.

He told me he knew it couldn't be a coincidence too, although the edge in his voice had not faded. "I was finally happy without the Church," he told me as we both got off the train. "And now it's like it's trying to sneak back into my life."

"That's because God loves you," I repeated. "And He wants you home."

This happened to me yesterday. As I've spent today reflecting on what happened, I have been overwhelmed by the immediate goodness of God, who recognized two people who needed to meet just to help each other. He knew what I needed to hear in March; he knew that partially because of what happened that day, I'd be in a position to help in September. And then He knew what time I needed to board that train; He knew where I needed to sit; He knew who I needed to be speaking to before this conversation happened so I could be in the right frame of mind. He orchestrated every minute detail of this interaction, proving to me yet again how meticulous and careful He is about our lives.

I testify to you that what is true for this young man and I is true for you all: that is, that God has not left you alone to flounder in oceans of anxiety and pain and doubt. You may feel alone, but you just simply aren't.

I cannot begin to imagine how this young man must feel; I didn't write the half of the things he shared, and some of what he's been through had me clutching at my heart in empathetic pain. A part of me, when I hear about these things, has to wonder, "where is the justice here? Where is the justice in a young man's suffering this way, when he set off on his mission to try to learn to serve God better?" At certain times in my life I wouldn't have an answer, because that is manifestly unjust. What in Earth or heaven justifies earthly suffering this way, especially when it seems this young man did nothing to deserve the terrible pain he now feels.

But let me repeat what I have probably said here before: that is that pain is not good. Do you expect me to look into this young man's tear-filled eyes and tell him, "This suffering is good for you?" Absolutely not. I believe pain is meant to be what it is. It's meant to be painful. It hurts. 

The faith and the logic of my heart have taught me that if we were not intended to feel pain in our lives, we wouldn't. That means that logically, there is a reason for all the pain, and what I believe part of it may be is to present us with a choice. We can turn to God and find strength in Him; or we can turn away and be left to our own devices. In fact, in a previous post addressed to my future children, I wrote, "the trial is not good, it is you who are good and can, through the help of the Savior, turn a hard thing into a good thing." But it's up to you to choose Christ, and then to do everything you possibly can, and then to watch Him change you.

This is a process I've been through multiple times. I have not always clung to Christ as much as I should have. But whenever I have made that choice to run to Him instead of away, He has changed me. Notice that He has almost never changed my situation -- I still have anxiety. I still got dumped in March. There are a lot of things that aren't right yet on paper, but they're right in my heart. I have peace about them. And that is because Jesus Christ changed me. I could not have done it by myself.

Additionally, I've been thinking about how meaningful it is that the Savior kept His scars as a reminder to us that He is so able to help us. I think in our own small ways, this is true for us as well. He allows us to experience the effects of our trials for possibly longer than they actually last, or helps us to develop a newer and deeper sensitivity to the trials and perils of others, so that we can help them. It is a painful process to attain scars, and often it's hard to know why, in the moment, we need to have the wounds we do. But these are more of those dots that you can only connect going backwards. You can only see the reason why, seven months ago, you boarded a train with your heart in your throat, why you had to hurt worse than you'd hurt in years, why it was important for you to be at your wit's end, when you can sit across from the same young man who sat across from you and tell him the same things he said to comfort you.

Never doubt that God is mindful of you -- even if you are going through the worst time of your life. I know that through Christ, all the pain you feel can one day make sense. That day might not be today, or ever in this life, but "not now, but in the coming years; it may not be when we demand; we'll read the meaning of our tears, and then sometime we'll understand" (Rob Gardner, "Sometime We'll Understand"). You can be healed, in beautiful and unexpected ways, and that healing will allow you to better help others on their own path.

That girl seven months ago wasn't alone. My friend on that train last night wasn't alone. And neither are you. I promise you that.