Sometimes I wonder why I allow words to affect me in such a significant way. Idiomatic wisdom would teach that sticks and stones may break bones, but words will never hurt. Although this may be the case for some, it is certainly not for me.
For me, being one who has internally struggled with self-confidence, the words of others usually find their way straight to my core. Words can be more sharp and biting than any wielded weapon. Wounds of the flesh will mend themselves, but wounds of the soul cannot be simply covered with a band-aid and expected to heal.
Words frequently come tumbling out with no thought to their potential consequences. Will these words shape and inspire, or will they degrade and demolish? Whether uttered before one's face behind one's back, words carry the same clout.
On the other hand, the right words at the right time are often the means of inspiration to get up and get moving. Words can be stirring, gratifying, supportive, and constructive. A compliment here and a kind word there require little more than a small moment of consideration.
Words can say volumes about one's character. Tactless words, spoken with no regard, cause unnecessary and lingering pain. Considerate words, spoken from the heart, weave a web of comfort and confidence in which one can feel safe and secure about self and the future.
Ponder the power of your words. To what end are they spoken?
c. johnson
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
voda
“And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together … and let the dry land appear: and it was so. And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good” (Genesis 1:9-10). In the beginning, separation of water from the land was of paramount importance. At the suggestion of a trusted friend, I will give a short moment to ponder on the importance of water.
Some call it water, some voda, and others aqua. Despite its ubiquitous nature, many helplessly thirst on a daily basis. I, on the other hand, have practically endless amounts at my disposal; and I don’t even have to pay for it. Anytime I’m thirsty, I just mosey on over to the sink for a cool, refreshing drink.
But what makes water so innately indispensable? Surely its life giving properties extend beyond the drinking glass. Jesus himself said to Nicodemus, “Except a man be born of water and of the spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God” (John 3:5). Water, as we see, not only provides and sustains life in the here and now, but also provides access to life in the hereafter.
Just a few incomplete morsels of food for thought.
c. johnson
Some call it water, some voda, and others aqua. Despite its ubiquitous nature, many helplessly thirst on a daily basis. I, on the other hand, have practically endless amounts at my disposal; and I don’t even have to pay for it. Anytime I’m thirsty, I just mosey on over to the sink for a cool, refreshing drink.
But what makes water so innately indispensable? Surely its life giving properties extend beyond the drinking glass. Jesus himself said to Nicodemus, “Except a man be born of water and of the spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God” (John 3:5). Water, as we see, not only provides and sustains life in the here and now, but also provides access to life in the hereafter.
Just a few incomplete morsels of food for thought.
c. johnson
Sunday, February 14, 2010
coulrophobia
Some dreams simply don't make sense. More often than not my dreams are laden with unfamiliar people and places. I often wonder what my early morning, sleep-cycle adventures are supposed to mean. Sometimes my dreams are downright absurd. I'll share with you one such gem of my dream land.
The whole dream is in black and white--totally lucid. I enter a house, which is apparently my house, only it doesn’t look like my house. I come in the door and there stands a Yosemite Sam look-alike, in the flesh. He's got one of those crazy-thick, push-broom mustaches; and he’s just chilling in my kitchen, being creepy. I’m not sure what that’s all about, but I know I don’t want to get involved. So I just scurry up the stairs to bed, as it’s already very late.
As I'm lying there snoozing, I’m awakened by some hullabaloo in the kitchen downstairs. In my drowsy state I figure that it’s just Mom doing the dishes or some such nonsense. As my heavy eyelids close, I hear someone sidling up the creaky stairs outside the bedroom door. The doorknob turns, and through the small slit of the one eye I manage to open, I see a large figure enter the room. I try to open my eyes and focus on the intruder, but I can’t seem to see though the blur. The stench of burnt grease reaches my nostrils and a shutter. Finally my eyes adjust enough to make out the figure that is now standing at the foot of my bed, looming over me in the shadows.
Upon seeing his ghastly face, my whole being tenses with fear. Leaning over me with outstretched arms and gnarled hands is the epitome of evil: Ronald McDonald. But this is not the Happy Meal-serving, charity-supporting, fun-loving Ronald kids know and trust. No, this is off-the-clock, after-hours, most likely tipsy, and ill-tempered Ronald. His wig is gone, his makeup smeared, his wrinkled and scarred face revealed. I tried to scream, to run, to move, to do anything; but my heart had stopped beating. This was the end. I could only watch as the yellow eyes of death descended slowly upon me.
But just as I had consigned myself to a death high in saturated fat, I awoke to the sweet salvation of reality, breathing hard. I sat up, wiping the sweat from my face. Looking around the room, checking for prowlers, I struggled to control my breathing. Then, as I eventually came to my senses, the first thought that ran through my head is probably the same one that’s running through yours now: "Seriously? Ronald McDonald? Aarg, I hate fast food."
c. johnson
The whole dream is in black and white--totally lucid. I enter a house, which is apparently my house, only it doesn’t look like my house. I come in the door and there stands a Yosemite Sam look-alike, in the flesh. He's got one of those crazy-thick, push-broom mustaches; and he’s just chilling in my kitchen, being creepy. I’m not sure what that’s all about, but I know I don’t want to get involved. So I just scurry up the stairs to bed, as it’s already very late.
As I'm lying there snoozing, I’m awakened by some hullabaloo in the kitchen downstairs. In my drowsy state I figure that it’s just Mom doing the dishes or some such nonsense. As my heavy eyelids close, I hear someone sidling up the creaky stairs outside the bedroom door. The doorknob turns, and through the small slit of the one eye I manage to open, I see a large figure enter the room. I try to open my eyes and focus on the intruder, but I can’t seem to see though the blur. The stench of burnt grease reaches my nostrils and a shutter. Finally my eyes adjust enough to make out the figure that is now standing at the foot of my bed, looming over me in the shadows.
Upon seeing his ghastly face, my whole being tenses with fear. Leaning over me with outstretched arms and gnarled hands is the epitome of evil: Ronald McDonald. But this is not the Happy Meal-serving, charity-supporting, fun-loving Ronald kids know and trust. No, this is off-the-clock, after-hours, most likely tipsy, and ill-tempered Ronald. His wig is gone, his makeup smeared, his wrinkled and scarred face revealed. I tried to scream, to run, to move, to do anything; but my heart had stopped beating. This was the end. I could only watch as the yellow eyes of death descended slowly upon me.
But just as I had consigned myself to a death high in saturated fat, I awoke to the sweet salvation of reality, breathing hard. I sat up, wiping the sweat from my face. Looking around the room, checking for prowlers, I struggled to control my breathing. Then, as I eventually came to my senses, the first thought that ran through my head is probably the same one that’s running through yours now: "Seriously? Ronald McDonald? Aarg, I hate fast food."
c. johnson
Sunday, February 7, 2010
finding purpose in the routine
The day dawn is breaking and Clay is still sleeping. The earliest rays of sunshine should bring joy of a new day and a smile to my face, but rather they usually bring two taps of the snooze button and a set of dark-circled, puffy eyes. Nevertheless, somehow I make myself roll out of bed every morning to the same routine: pray without falling back asleep, stumble into the bathroom, make that funny the-lights-are-way-too-bright face, climb in the shower, try to stop that squealing noise the shower makes, shave, get dressed, eat a bowl of something soggy, and head off to defend the world from evil.
If any of this is sounding familiar, then you're in good company. The question on my mind is why do I do it? What's the purpose of it all? What in the world is more enticing than the comfort of my BYU Snuggie-covered bed? Why do I even bother to get up when I know that the day will just be filled with ornery people and things that stress me out? Do I do it out of some sense of duty or obligation? Am I afraid that I won't like up to somebody's expectations of me? Do I fear what others will think if I don't prove to be a hardworking, diligent RM? The answers to this myriad of questions are more knotty and lengthy than I would have time to discuss on my little blog. But one thing is for sure: something--some feeling, desire, or drive--rolls me out of bed each morning and keeps me moving forward no matter how bad the previous day was.
The trouble with all of this philosophizing is trying to come to some type of practical conclusion. What am I getting at? How do I put a finger on a specific thing that drives me? Well, were I to try to consolidate the complexity of what keeps my feet moving forward, I would name one indispensable attribute: hope. The reason why I ever pull my head off my pillow is because I have hope that today will be a better day than yesterday; hope that despite the obvious weaknesses I posses, I have a compassionate Creator who is very aware of my efforts to improve; hope that although I made mistakes yesterday, today is not yesterday at all--today is a new day, void of all the weight of yesterday's sorrows; and hope that the effort I put into living today to its fullest is not in vain.
I have great hope in God's plan for me and hope in the happiness that awaits me. True, most days really aren't that spectacular. No, my life hasn't been turning out the way I had planned (not even close). But I have hope that the best is yet to come. I truly believe that “whoso believeth in God might with surety hope for a better world … which hope cometh of faith, maketh an anchor to the souls of men, which would make them sure and steadfast, always abounding in good works, being led to glorify God” (Ether 12:4). Indeed it is a hope in His plan that keeps me going. Although I have never been more uncertain of what lies ahead, I have hope that the path He has laid out for me is one of growth and lasting happiness.
c. johnson
If any of this is sounding familiar, then you're in good company. The question on my mind is why do I do it? What's the purpose of it all? What in the world is more enticing than the comfort of my BYU Snuggie-covered bed? Why do I even bother to get up when I know that the day will just be filled with ornery people and things that stress me out? Do I do it out of some sense of duty or obligation? Am I afraid that I won't like up to somebody's expectations of me? Do I fear what others will think if I don't prove to be a hardworking, diligent RM? The answers to this myriad of questions are more knotty and lengthy than I would have time to discuss on my little blog. But one thing is for sure: something--some feeling, desire, or drive--rolls me out of bed each morning and keeps me moving forward no matter how bad the previous day was.
The trouble with all of this philosophizing is trying to come to some type of practical conclusion. What am I getting at? How do I put a finger on a specific thing that drives me? Well, were I to try to consolidate the complexity of what keeps my feet moving forward, I would name one indispensable attribute: hope. The reason why I ever pull my head off my pillow is because I have hope that today will be a better day than yesterday; hope that despite the obvious weaknesses I posses, I have a compassionate Creator who is very aware of my efforts to improve; hope that although I made mistakes yesterday, today is not yesterday at all--today is a new day, void of all the weight of yesterday's sorrows; and hope that the effort I put into living today to its fullest is not in vain.
I have great hope in God's plan for me and hope in the happiness that awaits me. True, most days really aren't that spectacular. No, my life hasn't been turning out the way I had planned (not even close). But I have hope that the best is yet to come. I truly believe that “whoso believeth in God might with surety hope for a better world … which hope cometh of faith, maketh an anchor to the souls of men, which would make them sure and steadfast, always abounding in good works, being led to glorify God” (Ether 12:4). Indeed it is a hope in His plan that keeps me going. Although I have never been more uncertain of what lies ahead, I have hope that the path He has laid out for me is one of growth and lasting happiness.
c. johnson
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