Guernicia

 Before World War II erupted, there was a large civil war going on in Spain.

It was a horrible conflict where thousands perished and the infamous Francisco Franco became Spain's ruthless dictator.

Particularly in the Basque country, the fighting was brutal, and it is estimated that over half of the casualties were innocent civilians. 

As the war progressed, the Nationalist forces gained an incredibly powerful alley, Nazi Germany, who gave them arms, men, cargo, planes, and bombs.

     The Nazi Luftwaffe, or Air force, was developing advanced tactics to not only cripple their enemies' war machines, but to completely break the will of the entire nation to fight. They reasoned that if civilians where intentionally targeted that it would break their morale and they would soon surrender. Thus, the "Terror Bombing" chapter was indoctrinated into the Blitzkrieg tactics. There was only one problem with this new way of waging war; It had yet to be tested.
     Germany was not yet pursuing its world dominance, and so it loaned some pilots, planes and bombs to the Nationalists of Spain to not only produce another fascist country but also to test this Terror Bombing to see how effective it could be. They graciously accepted by choosing the little town of Guernicia, in Basque country.
     while Guernicia was the unofficial Head-quarters for the Republican forces, it housed one of the smallest military forces in the area, and was mainly populated by civilians. It would be the perfect testing grounds for their tactics, and they shortly afterwords prepared the Heinkel  bomber planes.
     The bombs started to drop the afternoon of April 26, 1937. For nearly two hours, hundreds of bombs fell into the once peaceful town, killing hundreds (estimated to be in the thousands by some experts) of unarmed, non-military people. The destruction was horrific, and would serve to be a template of the rest of Europe in only a few more years.

The destruction of Guernicia. Less than five years later most of Europe would look eerily similar. Eyewitness reports where horrific, detailing the incredible destructiveness of the bombs.

     The news of this bombing started to fly across Europe, and reached the ears of a native of the Basque country who was staying in Paris. Pablo Picasso, the famous cubist painter was stunned to hear about such a brutal attack on defenseless people, and not a month later had started one of his most famous paintings ever, in disgust about the massacre. He finished the 25 foot long, 11 foot high painting in less than a month, titling it Guernicia.


     Picasso used only black and white paints to depict the horrors of the bombing, giving it an ethereal contrast and making it feel like a photograph (which at the time were primarily monochromatic). Using his trademark cubism Picasso aimed to not only add complete confusion to the piece but also tell the tale from multiple angles.
     It should be noted that there are also some symbolism with all of the animals (namely the horse and the bull) but that is something that the individual should explore themselves.
     This is one of my absolute favorite paintings, and I am not entirely sure why. I remember reading in one of my Battle encyclopedia books as a young teenager and coming across a picture of this. The description talked about how people react and depict war in so many diverse ways, from such a striking, abstract, and unnatural painting like this to the triumphant horse riding victory of the Romantics. I have always been fascinated with conflicts like these, and to get a painting that depicts to me the chaos of what this new kind of war must be like captures my interest and emotions. What it must have felt like to be those poor citizens, having your entire world on fire and exploding, with nothing but the screams of your friends, neighbors and family mixed with the mechanical drone of the heartless, faceless planes above to hear. What would I do in such a horrific situation? Where do you begin in cleaning up and trying to repair all of this?
     On my last note of this painting, I cannot pretend that I understand Picasso's Cubism, and certainly not appreciate it the way that it is intended to, but I can appreciate the work that he has put into it, as well as the thought and the striking image itself that brings to my mind so many emotions and even memories. I like to think that Picasso would be proud that his painting has touched someone who previously didn't even like the movement.

To Write A Poem

To Write A Poem

     There are many times in life when the world presses down upon us and the feeling of Atlas, all alone and holding such a incomprehensible weight, is adopted by our feeble minds. It is a romantic notion that many of our heads love to entertain, though it is one that is rarely true for most of us. As the wise words of Jon Donne recall, no man is an island, yet we still isolate ourselves from the love and care from those that love us, and indeed we create many of our own nightmares in that regard. I suppose that is what makes depression so incredibly disheartening, because it is not so much a negative world seeping into an innocent soul but rather a negative mind feeding a fearing soul. We discredit those that love us because we do not love ourselves, and how can anyone deal with that? We feel that we are a burden, a mask that so quickly lifts to reveal nothing more than pain and future regret.
     And yet, it is so much more than just that... Like any true emotion, no amount of elaborate language can satisfy the simply complex depth. Let me try though.

When decisions must be made

Often our hearts turn heavy,

Entrenched with man-made levees

     It was a cool day, which was typical for New Mexico at this time of year, almost like it was not able to decide what it wanted to be, a cooling rainy shadow, or a sweaty hot mess. The atmospheric ambivalence played to my heart though, and as our little Jeep rambled along the dusty dead road, I felt my fears swell up again. The dirt's earthen hues combined with the dry grey sky seemed to adopt my melancholy, and the Jeep's inadequate engine was quiet enough that the whole scene seemed like a morbid montage played to the tune of death itself. And yet, I mused to myself, here I am, as alive as ever.
     The past few days had been some of the worst in my life. Even retrospectively, I still have nightmares and still regret those days with a sense of guilt that only the Lord could ever hope to relieve. I had been misunderstood, mistaken, and taken advantage of by others as well as myself. I had been stripped of everything I thought I loved and cared for, and everyone seemed so quick to continue the hate, myself, most of all.
     My companion knew all too well that there was nothing to be said at this time. While he was more than supportive, without the exonerating diagnosis I would receive much later, there was no way of understanding the situation. It was like looking for the final puzzle piece when the manufacture agonizingly forgot to include it with the others. Hope, as it seemed, had released its final petal and only working with blindness was left to continue.
     While he worked hard to be accommodating, understanding, and even content with the situation, I could not be. I had been stripped clean of all preconceived notions of who I was and what I was doing here, and there was not a minute that ticked by that those pervasive thoughts assaulted my already fragile mind. Insanity was at its peak, with all sorts of absurd philosophies and ideas starting to swirl around me, until I could no longer discern them from the truths I was sure of only weeks ago.

These scenes so quickly I can recall,

Hauntingly clear and vivid

Painfully reminding me of how hard I did fall

And how the trauma bruised my heart livid

     Quickly after the worst episode of the complete abandonment of my senses (because of my continuing and untreated depression and anxiety), my Mission President gave me what we both thought must be the answer to this issue, simply do not worry about myself, but get lost in the service of others. The doctrine had been drilled into me for all of my entire life, but never had it struck a cord so harmoniously in me that I thought that this must be what it was referring to. For a brief moment, my identity crisis seemed to be averted, cured, and completed, leaving me to go to work yet again.
     It seemed that, for the following few days President was right; I was indeed making leaps of progress and was functioning nearly to the degree that I thought I would be, right up to the minute it all collapsed yet again.
     We where in the hospital visiting a good less active member. The room was what I thought every hospital room was like, an ironic place that had the power to sustain and save lives, yet was devoid and sanitized of any character and soul itself. The whir of pumps and the hum of machines dominated this sterile habitat, and always it made me unnaturally uncomfortable. Maybe it was the help of the room's infertile and aseptic atmosphere that helped push me beyond the brink; Maybe it was the question that this inquiring man asked me. Either way, after hearing about his condition (which was a decidedly uneasy stability) he turned to me specifically and asked if I could give him a blessing of comfort and peace.
     The irony of the cold, calculated room started to immediately deafen me, and for what must have been multiple eternities I was engulfed in such a fiery pit of doubt and hate that I could not see what was in front of me. The small and overworked bottle imprisoning all of my fears, doubts, cynics, and paranoia burst into oblivion as they rioted back up to their rightful spot, in the forefront of my thought's focus. While even now, over a year after it has happened, I can scarcely recall the details with any of the vivid accuracy; I was at a complete loss of what on earth had just happened at the time. Tears uncontrollably streamed down my cheeks as I chocked on my words, finally having to shake my head a very solemn and weighted "no." Today this is probably the single worst moment of my life, not only the loss of my testimony at the time, but the failure to help another keep his. After another couple eternities of the most hellishly heavy silence, I found the words to B.S. my way out of the situation and quickly closed our eternally brief meeting.
     I have often reflected on this moment, naturally being the time when I could not be any less sure of what I knew and how I knew it. Today I can (to a reasonable extent) illustrate this with Descartes's introduction to Meditation I, where he admits that he has no idea how he knows anything and how he could know if any of it was possibly true. Again though, at the time I could not explain what had happened and what I was feeling. It was a truly out of body experience for me. I had no idea who I was, what I was to do with myself and what was important to me. I was so apathetic that it felt like I was viewing myself from the third person. This sounds dramatic (even by my standards) but it is exactly what I was feeling. There was no outlets I had discovered to safely and productively bleed and release the tension. When I was trying to work harder after my Mission President's counsel, I was not taking my pains and stresses to the Lord while I was trying to help others, I had kept them to myself to carry as well as the burdens of others. It was only a matter of time before I collapsed from the near infinite load.

Further and further

This little road descends

Darker and darker

'Till my hope seems to end

     This was my Atlas moment, where I was burdened with what seemed to be my entire world, no help, just criticisms all around. I had effectively completely isolated and alienated myself from even my own peers. I had defeated myself, and the ache of failure came upon me yet again. The Jeep was heading home after a long day of work, and the failures squeezed every bit of interest and love right out of me.
     The sun had started setting when we arrived back at our humble apartment. Darkness began to grow from the far east bends of the sky, slowly though consistently defeating the fragile last line of sunlight. Our apartment was also dark, and the few lights inside where quite inadequate with warming up the place. My companion and I bowed down into a kneel and prayed, planned and then set off to get ready for bed. Instead of slumping onto my mattress though, I went to my desk and sat, knowing that I could not go to sleep. Truly I had no idea of what I wanted in this mission, or even in this life anymore, but I knew that I could fight these feelings. I just needed the right outlet.
     My desk was cluttered with all sorts of my stuff, so I started to look through it, trying to find something that could explain me, and give words to my feelings. I opened up my scriptures, and verse after verse I felt no comfort, connected with nothing said, and discouraged I put them under my desk and began looking again. After clearing some missionary paperwork, I noticed my journal under all the clutter. Curiously I picked up the small, leather bound book and flipped through its pages. All of the passages were rather lifeless, dull, and purely explanations for what happened that day. I vocally snorted at my past self's writings, was this who I was? Day after day of nothing else but the same thing? Soon though I saw the days start to grow shorter in description, and many days were not accounted for at all before I finally stumbled upon a fresh, blank page.
     I can write better than that, I told myself. Gripping my pen I started to write. In my hilariously childish handwriting, I began by saying who I was and what I knew. I started to try to talk about my fears and pains, my goals and aspirations, and my dreams. When what must have been an hour had passed I was finished. I had put all that I thought I could possibly put into this, and was eager to read the results.
     With each word read, and each paragraph digested, my smile started to fade. I did not make it all the way through.

Back in my burnt down remains,

The dregs of my soul begs and pleads

Confined in this misery, Though with hope to evade

My hell seems content to be

     Though it was not poorly written, it had no weight to it. It was all just a story, a retelling of events and thoughts. A flat, emotionless, indifferent and cold work that did more harm than justice to my broken self. Even through my rage it seemed to make sense, one cannot try to describe the hopelessness of a situation by merely writing what happened and expect to feel it. No, I needed something more powerful. I resolved to abandon all physical context to get a pure sight of what I was feeling. It would be a journal for the mind, I mused to myself as I again began writing.

     It was not too much later when I decided to take a look at what I had created. Again, My hopeful ambitions, like a light from a flare, quickly faded before being completely extinguished. It had made even less sense in reality, not only denying me something to connect to and comfort myself with, but also mocking my struggle. Anger flared as I mercilessly ripped the page out and threw it as hard as I could away from me. The paper seemed determined in its campaign to humiliate me however, as it did not soar across the apartment but instead whimsically and almost calmly flipped around my airspace, again proving I had no control and no idea.

     It was enough for me. I rested my head against my desk, accepting my loss. Tears unwillingly strained from my eyes as I sat there alone. After five or so minutes of this, I sat up, wiped my tear stained face and looked down at what was left of my violently violated journal. Again, through some of the rough rips of the previous attempt I saw a white blank page, almost begging me to try just one more time.
     Hesitantly I picked up my pen, and wrote a simple sentence. It was just a statement, nothing elaborate, just a plain, crafted sentence. Again, I wrote another sentence to follow up the first one, still as spartan. Carefully I inspected the two, and found something interesting; I had accidentally rhymed the two, and noticed they flowed better. In fact, it kind of stirred something in me, like this elementary literary device had somehow sparked a kind of emotion inside me. Intrigued, I abandoned the novel narrative and instead tried my hand at poetry. I had never been a huge fan of poetry; I had tried it a few times as a child but never really found much interest in it before. Now though, it seemed very different.
     I wrote a simple A-A, B-B form, only writing what came to my mind. It was quick, and even fun. It took only a couple seconds for me to think of words that rhymed while still staying true to what I was feeling, and the rest was just simply writing it down. 

     I knew exactly when I was finished, because I said what I was feeling. I looked over it, soaking in each word and each line, and for the first time in months, I felt... understood. It took me by such surprise and force that I found myself literally crying at my desk. Part of me was just so impressed that a simple rhythm and rhyme could trigger such a meaningful response, and the other part of me was nearly ashamed that it was so. All of the time I had been praying and pleading to not only my Heavenly Father, but also my mission president, companions, and family back home had not yielded half of the results that this stupid piece of paper with ink on it seemed to. It was a rudimentary poem, primary by nature and so poorly written that I dare not share it, but there it was, the painting of my despair, my hope, and my dreams, both broken yet at the same time alive and well. At this time even music could not hold a candle to this intrinsic poem of mine, partly because I could not listen to the music that probably would have. That was acceptable to me, however, because I had found something new to work on and enjoy. I had written a poem.

Personal Insights

     One might say that this was a proof then that God could not exist. He did not answer me when I had asked Him, even begged for an answer, right? And yet I feel so strongly the opposite, that this was God's way of showing me how to help myself out. This was the beginning of my new testimony, a stronger, more heavily wailed upon armor that had stood the test of time and will continue onward. It is battle hardened and has many cracks in it, but still provides just enough of the strength required to get the job done.

     Another argument that could arise is the fact that despite me finding poetry, I still went home early, and even attempted to take my own life before that. Surely these would not have happened had the Lord taken away my pains and sorrows, or given me a silver bullet to defeat them all, and yet I am still inclined to disagree. You see, if I had not found poetry, I would have killed myself months before. God knew it would be a close call, but He also knew that if I chose to that I would come out with the tools necessary for my life. It was not a gamble on His part so much as it was on mine, I was the one with the choice, I decided (with a lot of help) that ultimately I did not want to die and leave behind a legacy of terrible pain. I had felt that before, and it was not a warm and welcoming feeling. He knew that I would come home early because He had only called me for 11 months. It is still hard for me to speak on, and you better believe that putting this into writing is no easy task (I have been writing this post for well over a month now) but I know that one day it will make sense. Until then I have my poetry, blog, friends, school, work, and family to help me out. 

The Stanley Parable

     One of the most unique video games I have ever played starts with a normal office worker who starts his day at his normal job, but is confronted with a very abnormal experience. Our hero is Stanley, who loves to work his normal job and go to his normal home and live his normal life. When Stanley gets to work, he notices that his computer has no commands like it always does, and when he goes outside of his office he discovers that none of his coworkers are at work. For Stanley, this has never happened before.

     There is a narration to Stanley's actions, and when the player takes control of Stanley, he is faced with a choice. 

     "Stanley came to a set of two open doors," the narrator states. "He entered the door on the left." 

     Clearly, Stanley does not have to go through the left door. You can choose whether to follow the narrator or not, but what an interesting situation to be put through in a video game, where you have the chance to seemingly rebel openly against the game itself!

     What happens if you steer to through the right door? Well, I will not spoil that for you, but I will say this, it makes you think. Something that we take for granted all the time in video games (and even life sometimes) is the lack of true choice. Rarely do our decisions really make such lasting effects, yet The Stanley Parable is nothing but a series of decisions that determines the literal course of the game. We take for granted the decisions that the game makes for us, to ensure that we reach the proper destination with as little delay as possible. Even "sandbox" and "open world" style games have a very paced feel about them comparatively, that even though you choose what you want to do the same inevitable endings always occur. The Stanley Parable creates the possibility to not have the predetermined ending that so many other games have, but at the risk that the ending may not be an ending at all. There are many inconsistencies and holes in the game and universe, yet the more you play it, the less you care. The fascination of real consequences for our choices borderlines obsession with those who play this game, but funny enough, I think the important parable is lost on many of us (including myself).

     Arguably the most basic of human foundations is choice. We have the ability to choose our destiny, to create who we want to become! Too often though, we let family, friends, and society confine our paths to seemingly premeditated endings depending on our wealth, religion, race, and culture. We think that because we are part of this or that, we must become like it, and live like it. I do not think this is wise.

     You see, if we give ANYONE, our agency, we are surrendering our most basic right as human beings. We cannot let another choose our choices for us, or else we will not be who we choose to be. We cannot become the product of another's choices and expect to be happy.
To all of you anarchists and atheists, this sounds very right, but to religious and God fearing folk, this may come off as... different than what we understand. I think however, that this is actually not as far fetched as one may think, that agency is in fact the sole reason why Christ is our Savior, and why we are on earth. God does not enforce His will in us, even though He does enforce the consequences, be it good or bad. How else can people murder and rape, pillage and plunder? No, God does not force us to do anything, because He wants us to be happy. How could we choose to be happy when there was no other choice? We would never understand the principles of love, respect, and responsibility. We would never learn and grow. We would be in the exact same state of mind as we where before we came here.
     No, God wanted something more for us. He wanted us to be able to choose who we wanted to become. He gave us prophets and commandments so that if we desired to return to Him that we would have the proper set of tools. He knew that because of this agency there would be much confusion, pain, grief, and suffering. He knew it would never be "fair" because it was fallen, and people had the choice whether to be fair or not. He understood these great, great costs, and yet He implemented them, because He understood that the price for something great required the possibility of failure. Anything of worth requires sacrifice and the possibility that it wont work. Nothing of real value can be earned without some kind of work or sacrifice.

     This is exactly what the Stanley Parable is all about, choosing who you want to be by choosing what you want to do. Some of the endings are disconcerting and some are even psychotic, while others are peaceful and inviting. It all depends on what you choose.  Even though the entire game is of course scripted and staged, it gives a feeling completely opposite of that, and offers one of the most unique and interesting experiences I have ever seen.

The Stanley Parable is available on the Steam network for $15, though goes on sale for as low as $2 regularly.

The Civil Wars

     Sometimes life gives us deep, deep experiences, ones that are so powerful it literally brings us to a crossroads of our destiny. These experiences happen to all of us, and are such a combination of emotions and thoughts that it takes years, sometimes even decades, to interpret and understand. Very rarely do we ever see another's experience like this, and when we do it is most likely because we are a part of it. Even more sparsely do we ever get to see it from an outside perspective. When that happens, it almost feels wrong, like you should not be seeing/hearing/experiencing this because it is another's fight for their very soul and destiny. Though music can create that kind of intimacy, all too often it doesn't. When it does, though, it is pretty apparent, and sacredly beautiful.

     The Civil Wars' self titled second album is just that, a look inside the lives of something more than just music making. It is the look into a relationship that should never have happened, and the effects on themselves and others from it. Simply put, they are singing to each other, instead of with each other. For me, this is what makes a good artist great, or a good album great. It is the difference between listening to music and feeling music. These people aren't just playing their music, they are living it.

     Joy Williams and John Paul White are the creators and singers in the band. They met in Nashville in 2008, and released their first album in 2011. They recorded multiple songs and compositions for many movies and for other albums, including the Hunger Games (They co-produced the hit Taylor Swift track "Safe and Sound"), and in 2013 they released their latest album, self titled as The Civil Wars. Though musically it differs from their previous material, it reaches different levels of emotions.

     Joy is the focus point here, with her almost whiny vocals soaring across the country blend of acoustic and electric guitars and the occasional mandolin and banjo, giving an ethereal feel to the folksy blend. Her voice becomes almost angelic once combined with the dancing harmonies of John Paul. John's part is none the less despite her focus though, as he provides the grounding to allow the flow between Joy's delicate, and flying vocals with the rustic instruments to make the whole thing legendary. The lyrics are brutally honest, and make the album all the more chilling, speaking of forbidden love and other lovers.

     The X factor that makes the whole thing something more than just a listen though, is the chemistry of the two. More than simply singing with one another, these two sing to one another. They truly feel and believe what they are so intimately, longingly, and regretfully singing to each other.

     The first track, titled "The One That Got Away" illustrates this perfectly:

I never meant to get us in this deep

I never meant for this to mean a thing

Oh, if I could only go back in time

When you only held me in my mind

Just a longing without a trace

Oh, I wish I never seen your face

     Combine the lyrics with the music and chemistry of John and Joy, and you have something that literally puts chills up my spine every time I hear it. It is a ballad that has gone horribly wrong, and has turned into a funeral march. While many of the songs on this album are similarly and hauntingly noir, it is possibly the few genuinely happy tacks that invoke the most chilling emotions of the doomed relationship, as they describe just how happy things could have been. "From This Valley" paints this through a beautiful hymn of holding on to hope and love.

     In the end, this album may be the last we see from The Civil Wars, and while I am sad to see them go and especially in such a tough way, it is beautiful to be able to hear, and feel the truly human emotions and experiences that we all go through, yet rarely see in others. As said previously, it is haunting, chilling, and rich with beauty. Definitely worth a few listens.

Tchaikovsky, The 6th

In 1893 Pytor Ilyich Tchaikovsky finished his last symphony.

Many have called it his best.

     For me, I was entranced the first time I heard this, from the mournful and passionate first movement to the final fading of the last, it captured my thoughts and feelings and I felt taken away into Tchaikovsky's world of difficulties and beauties. Though I always liked classical music, I never ventured past what most know, Beethoven and Vivaldi, and those likes. Of course, Tchaikovsky is an extremely well known composer, and many are actually quite familiar with his works (such as Swan Lake and The Nutcracker) and yet if many today heard his 6th they would not be able to pin it to him, if anyone. Why is that?

     I think it is because it is a true classical piece, one where the composition must have the full attention of the listener. Casual listening does not bring appreciation for the complexities and the struggles and resolutions it brings. Tchaikovsky was a very troubled soul who endured many trials through out his life, and many times he said that if anyone wanted to get to know him and his life, they would be best off by listening to his 6th.
     The first time the beautiful melodies touched me was in the small, humble home of a wonderful and aged member in Deming, New Mexico. It was here that I was first shown the intricacies and the depth of his work, and was in awe by the powerful timing he has perfected. I cannot pretend to know the jargon and the depth of his musical understanding, but I do know and understand the feelings that I get when I study his fantastic work.
     In order to truly give this piece the justice it demands, a proper conductor and orchestra is needed. I have heard many different interpretations from many different conductors, and have constantly been disappointed with only two exceptions, both, naturally being Russian conductors, Evgeny Mravinsky and Valery Gergiev. The latter, Gergiev, is widely considered to be the spiritual successor to Tchaikovsky himself because his conducting style perfectly mimics Tchaikovsky's. Gergiev is also the student of Mravinsky, who comes from the direct line of pupils dating back to Tchaikovsky. Both of these conductors, conducting the Mravinsky (formerly known as the Leningrad) Symphony Orchestra, give the piece the beautiful and properly timed cadence that it deserves.
     Tchaikovsky's life piece is divided into four movements, and all are stunning. The first, and the longest movement, starts with a slow rise of deep strings and enters into a more steady, nearly frantic pace. There is an urgency in the beginning, though it feels nearly underrated. What really gets to me, though, is the melodies that start right after that. It is a romantic, sweepingly dramatic string melody that soars across the score, painting the joy and love that we feel at wonderful times during our lives. Tchaikovsky was always wonderful with melodies, and many modern soundtracks, popular songs, and other music have taken inspiration from them. This, however, made compositions harder to progress, as the melodies where independent, which meant that besides repetition, there wasn't much that could be done with them. However, in this day and age of increasingly quicker satisfactions and repetitious music, this allows Tchaikovsky's work to be more easily listened to by younger audiences.
     Words can only take one so far on describing the emotional journey that music creates for us, so pardon my inability to be able to recreate the experience for you, but also understand that this is much like trying to describe the new musical phenomenon known as Dub-step. It is pretty difficult, if not completely impossible, to be able to effectively conjure up the feelings that the penetrating synthesized bass seems to pound you into the earth, and such is the exact same with the delicate intricacies of an orchestrated romantic era composition.
     Like all of my recent posts, this is an emphasis on his trials as well as victories. Tchaikovsky was able to take the bad, mix it with the good, and create one of the most beautiful musical experiences I have ever heard. We can take the bad in our life, and make it into something beautiful. Without pain, peace and joy don't have the same meaning that make them so special. We just need to make it so. Pain will never leave us in this mortal life, but we can turn it into something beautiful. Overcoming our trials is making something negative become positive. 

It Tolls For Thee

'No Man is an Island'

No man is an island entire of itself;

 every man is a piece of the continent,

 a part of the main; 

if a clod be washed away by the sea,

 Europe is the less, 

as well as if a promontory were,

 as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; 

any man's death diminishes me, 

because I am involved in mankind. 

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

it tolls for thee. 

     Possibly my favorite poem (at least tied with How Did You Die by Edmund Vance Cooke), this wonderful work by John Donne describes very intricately how we are all connected to our surroundings and each other. To me it signifies that we are all a part of each other's experiences here, and we all have the opportunity to leave a positive or negative impact. Without these people in our lives, we would not be the people that we are today.
     The last two lines, however, leave the most impact on me. "...never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."
     Whenever I hear about someone passing away, I think of those lines. Last week, it was Robin Williams. This week, it is my Special Olympics hero, David "Hoagie" Ritchie. Hoagie is one of the funniest and happiest people I have ever known, and this mortal world will certainly miss his smile and optimism. He was a simple man, who worked diligently toward his goals. The way he lived his life has helped many, many people be happier, even if only in the smallest and simplest of ways. Because of his departure from this world into the next, we will miss him and his love. We will not be able to leave Wal-Mart with quite the same same smile as before. We will not be able to be cheered up by his Facebook messages, texts, and calls out of the blue that make us laugh and be happy that we where thought of. When David went, a part of us went with him. We will not be the same until we are reunited one day.
     The same is with every single one of us. David helped us feel special because we are special. He understood that we all have our problems and we all face challenges, but he was able to look past that and see us for who we are. He is one of the great earthly examples of what I have come to know Christ by. I can only imagine their reunion with each other (and with Hoagie's father) is one that is so beautiful.

     We will miss you Hoagie, you helped us smile in the simplest and most beautiful of ways, and this world will not be able to replace what it lost when you departed, but we know you are truly in a happier place where love does not die. Your loving family misses you dearly, but they know that they will see you again. God be with you, dear brother, till we meet again!

True Christianity

     Ever since news of Robin William's suicide has struck heated debates and arguments all over social media and the news, I have been reminded of what I attempted to do, and what dear family and friends have done. Most of what I hear on Facebook and on various blogs seems to hurt these thoughts and feelings more than help, and it is not too hard to see why. Many people (especially those who consider themselves Christian or at least spiritual) have taken the exact opposite side of what the mainstream media has done, and while I certainly see the validity of many of their points, I generally feel it is in a rather spiteful and contentious tone.
     Being a "survivor" and knowing a few others, as well as many who have experienced the depths of depression and the gulfs of despair that for some reason suicide seems to temporarily fill, the last thing we need is more hate and hopelessness. Yes, we should avoid suicide and prevent it, and yes, we do always have the choice, whether it feels like it or not, but we do not need to be calloused and heartless about the matter! Think, what would Christ do? Do you really think that He would guilt, shame, and scold those who are suffering depression and considering suicide? Because many people seem to think He would by how they are saying their opinions.
     In fact, I have not even heard Christ's name through out most of these debates, and that is just wrong! He DIED for us, so that we could conquer death. How cool is that? Robin Williams, as well as my uncle, and my friend who all committed suicide, despite it being a poor choice, will live again! Isn't that beautiful? They will not only live again, but they will not suffer the same thoughts and feelings that they did here on earth. Wow! Doesn't that just inspire you? Isn't that what we ought to be talking about, as Christians and believers? Instead of focusing on the sad choice that they did do, and condemning them for it, praise God for His wonderful plan that allows us to live again! Instead of spreading gossip of the gruesome details of his demise, let us look to Christ with a hope, a faith that even though we do not understand how, His plan will work out. We should not celebrate his death, nor anyone's, but we need to remember that there is ALWAYS hope. There is always a choice, but if we do not spread our Savior's Gospel then we are telling everyone they have a choice but with holding what the best one is.
     I believe suicidal thoughts can be overcome, because I believe that our Savior Jesus Christ has conquered them. It may not be immediate. It will likely be an uphill battle, where every inch of ground must be purchased with sweat and tears. There will be times we will feel completely alone, but we are not. That is the true difference between faith and fear, the same events happen, but those with faith have the hope that Christ is behind them, helping us on our way. Just because we have faith does not make the fight easier, it simply helps us see the worth of it. One of my favorite quotes of all time is someone saying "I never said it would be easy, I only said it would be worth it."
     Those who are depressed and feeling the inky black pits of hell, you are not alone. You have many who love and care for you. I promise, MANY. You are a worthwhile human being that can contribute to society and help people out. You can touch hearts and make smiles out of people that NO ONE ELSE can. Suicide will not take away your pain, it will merely transfer it to those who love you, which as I said before, are many. Pray, my dear friend, pray that you might be able to see that this struggle is worthwhile. Pray that you might understand more clearly your Heavenly Father's plan for you, that you might see that there is a Christ who has overcome all things, especially death. He loves you.  I know this because I have felt it.
     I pointed a Smith and Wesson Model 19 .357 magnum revolver at myself with intent pull that trigger. I was going to end it all. I was done, there seemed nothing left to me and my worth. It seemed that I had exhausted all that I thought I was good for, and so ending it seemed to be the next logical step. But as I held that gun to my head, something happened. There was no vision, not even a warmth or a feeling, just the feeling of killing myself was gone. It has been a rough battle since, and I have slid down hill many times. It feels like a never-ending circle of fighting depression and succumbing to it. It is tough, and I can only imagine how those who have it worse feel, but I also know that one day this will not be a problem anymore. That day may not very well come until the next life, but I know it, and I could not have survived this long without it.

     To those who are considering suicide, remember there are other options. Always. People really do care about you more than you think, and there are many tools to help you, both spiritual and physical. Please do not be afraid to ask for the help you need. It is scary, and really quite nerve racking, but it is worth it, I promise.

Here is a link to the suicide prevention website. it has people who can help you.
www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

Here is a link to some folks who would love to hear your story and tell you how much God loves you and what His plan for you is:

http://www.mormon.org/chat

     And finally, to those who have friends or family who are struggling with these thoughts and feelings, you can help. Do not police or pamper them, but continue being a friend. Do not pry them open, but listen when they talk to you about it. Listening is probably the most helpful thing you can do, and do not judge them. Everyone is different, and getting used to the situation will take time and some trial and error, but never be afraid to tell them how much they mean to you. Even if/when you get uncomfortable when they start talking about their feelings, continue to listen, and only give advice if they ask you. Refer them to help. Love them. You have a beautiful ability to be a true friend. Do not waste this opportunity, it may have fatal consequences. Remember you are loved, and trusted.

     Remember that we are all in this together. Lets stop with the hate and the spite, there is enough of that around without us helping it. Let us be true Christians to one another, and helping one another get through our various and complex issues.