It seems a common experience in the lives of people with high agency is that they, at some point, metaphorically, lean against a wall and discover that there is a hidden door. That some constraint they’ve been told about turns out not to hold, and this allows them to experience something positive. And from this they get into the habit of testing if walls are actually doors, and the more they do so, the more examples of hidden doors they find, and the more inclined they are to look for them. Far from the only thing that sets them apart, but having that experience can be transformative
— Henrik Olof Karlsson
This paragraph by Haruki Murakami hits hard:
“Once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
Keep your problems smaller than your life. A flat tire is a flat tire. A bad meeting is a bad meeting. A canceled flight is just an extra two hours. These things become catastrophes when you let them. But they stay manageable when you remember the depth of your real life- the people you love, the work you care about, the beautiful years still ahead. Zoom out. Fit your reaction to the size of the problem.
I am not a member of this man's church. But I have thought hard about what that man was walking into on the morning he replied this to me, and I think I understand why he was going, and I think my own tradition has half forgotten something his has not.
Nobody inside that building is going to explain the tumor. What it does instead is put him to work. He goes down into a font resting on the backs of twelve oxen, and he is baptized for people he never met, who died in countries he has never seen, whose names somebody had to go and find.
That is the part outsiders never quite absorb.
The whole system runs on names. Somewhere a person is sitting with a parish register from a Danish village, hunting for a woman nobody has spoken of in two centuries, because in that theology it is intolerable that anyone be lost track of. It is the same instinct that sent teams into the snow in 1856 and sent their descendants back to Rock Creek in 1987 to write down the dead.
The mormons are a people constitutionally unable to leave a body in a ditch. He puts on white clothing, and so does everyone else in the room, and for a few hours there is no way to tell the surgeon from the widow.
Nobody inside the temple is going to ask him how he is holding up. Nobody is going to say the thing people say in the church foyer that makes you want to put your fist through a wall. It is one of the last rooms in America where the expectation is silence.
Grief with nothing to do with its hands turns inward and rots. The temple gives grief a job.
And then there is the veil. A curtain, with someone on the other side of it that you cannot see, and you are brought through it by the hand. For most people in the room that is a beautiful symbol. For a man in his condition it is not a symbol at all. It is the future. In the sealing rooms there are mirrors on facing walls, so that when you look into one you see the reflection going back and back with no end to it.
A family kneels at an altar and is told that this arrangement is not dissolved by death. And he has been taught something more specific than that, which their founding prophet taught and their leaders have repeated for nearly two centuries: that a child who dies is not lost to her parents, and that in the resurrection they will have the raising of her.
The phrase families are forever can hold a man up or it can paper him over, and which one it does depends entirely on who is saying it and why. Said to a father on the floor, by someone willing to get on the floor with him, it is one of the strongest sentences in American religion.
So when a man tells me that his daughter died of a brain tumor and then tells me where he is going to the temple, I do not hear a man with an answer. I hear a man refusing to let the tumor write the ending.
He is walking into a building where the dead are spoken of as though they are still somewhere, because they are.
In suffering, redemption is still possible, and love has the final word.
Final does not mean current. The final word has not been spoken yet. We are somewhere in the middle of the sentence, and the middle of the sentence is unbearable, but the final word will come soon.