Confession 5: 1,300 mile faith
I never realized how much I need god until I went on trek. For those of you who don't know what trek is, it is a youth "activity" where we go to Wyoming and we do what the pioneers did. We pull handcarts in rain, snow, wind, cold, hot, you name it. We pulled them through rivers that were up to our waist, mud that was up to our knees, sagebrush that would cut your legs, ticks, snakes, spiders, bugs, and many other dangerous things like buffalo chips. We did all of this, and still I would take any opportunity to do it again. It made me realize how ungrateful I am to all that I have. It made me realize how easy my life is. It made me realize that I had to change. Change is a word that I like to pretend that I embrace, but am secretly scared to face. It messes up everything. Change is not something that I take lightly. I am not adaptable. It freaks me out to change. To be me and not to deal with anything else is fine. But what about everyone else in the world. What about my ancestors who gave literally everything they had. They changed their lives dramatically just so they could have the opportunity to gather with the saints. They gave everything to walk across this country in blizzards. They gave everything to have the gospel. Something that I was born with and something that I had taken so lightly. My ancestors lost a baby, but by the power of god, she came back to life. I treked for this baby and I hope that she realizes how much she has changed my life. During the womans' pull, it was a challenge, and I wanted to cry the whole way up. It was uphill, the path was slanted to the right or the left the whole way up. The men were standing on either sides of the path silently watching us with their hats off, over their chests, while we struggled up the hill walking right past them, and there was nothing that they could do to help. It hurt just to think about all of the women that left their husband and took their children to go to Zion. It hurt to think of the mothers who were widowed on the way and still pressed on. It hurt. Not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. During testimony meeting, we had so many different people get up and bear their testimony. One of the testimonies that was given was by an 18 year old girl from my ward. She talked about how hard it would have been to lose a family member on the way. One thing that she said that still sticks with me today was that "I could not be able to lay down my little sister on the side of the trail and know that there were wolves." After I heard her say that, my mind flashed back to my brothers. Would I have the courage to do that? The answer was immediate after one of their faces flashed through my mind. No. At that time. I would not be able to do that. I couldn't. I would give up. So what made coming to Zion so important. Sure they wanted to be surrounded and supported by the saints, but was that it? Or was it their faith in a prophet who was so young. Their faith in a boy who, when he was 14, walked into a grove and saw Heavenly Father and his son Jesus Christ. Their faith in a man who was tarred and feathered on the streets, at night by men who had painted their faces to hide their identity from a true living prophet of god. Their faith in a man who was innocent, but still was cast into prison multiple times for crimes he had never committed, but willingly went anyway. Their faith in a man who was brutally murdered for the sake of his church and his religion. Their faith is what kept them going. Their faith is what helped them get through the hurt, the pain, the loss, the death, and it got them to here. A desert. I can't imagine their disappointment when Brigham Young said "This is the place" But their faith kept them going through even this. I want to be like the pioneers. I want faith that will walk with me through the good times and will carry me through the bad. I want 1,300 mile faith.