Words and Prayers

This is my testimony: of art, of music, of God.

Here’s a young man – newly heart-broken (not hard to do with him). He’s watching the television with his friends, mainly for the escape. He doesn’t want to think about her anymore. He even wishes he’d never spoken to her in the first place. Mainly, though, he just doesn’t want to think – not about her, the wasted months. Not about anything. Just sit back, watch the television (it’s Doctor Who, of all things). Then he hears a single line of dialogue: “Some things are worth getting your heart broken.” And he remembers it all – holding hands in the dark, warm smiles against winter winds, thrilling eyes. He knows they’re just memories – she is just a memory. But, for that minute, the regret is a memory, too.

Another young man: thoughtful, contemplative… sometimes to a fault. He questions – all people do. Here, we see him questioning everything he’s been taught from his childhood on. God, Christ, all of it – completely uncertain. He doesn’t have the courage to pray, to see if it all really is imagined, or if it all is real. He remembers, then, a line of a song he learned in school – a poem by Robert Frost, set to music: “So, when at times the mob is swayed/To carry praise or blame too far/We may take something like a star/To stay our minds on, and be stayed.” So he accepts it: not the sure stone of gospel truth, but a small step, at least, on the stairway to the high ground. The safe ground.

Here’s a new man, just graduated from high school. He’s giddy with success, but at the back of his brain, he feels a small buzz – a sense of unease, as though everything he’d been working on for eighteen years meant nothing. Just then, a new song comes on the radio – John Meyer, who says, “I just found out there’s no such thing as the real world. Just a lie you’ve got to rise above.” Of course, this young man is furious at the though – it can’t be that way. There’s got to be something to all this learning. He doesn’t realize, until years later, that the singer had a point. The learning is not the destination – but it is a step on the journey, a means of making the road lighter, of drawing lessons from the ground. He no longer lives for schooling – he just lives, and his education lives for him.

A boy – sixteen years old, maybe – reads his scriptures every day, like a good little Mormon boy should. One day, he gets in an arm-wrestling competition and loses. Repeatedly. Against everyone. Even the girls. He laughs it off, of course – that’s what he does. And he’d probably be okay, but still… He’s weak. And he can’t help but get a little down on himself. So, that night, as he reads, he comes across a verse in the Book of Mormon. It’s in Alma, Chapter 26, verse 12, if you want to read along: “I know that I am nothing. As to my strength, I am weak. Therefore, I will not boast of myself, but I will boast of my God, for in his strength, I can do all things.” And he realizes that he doesn’t have to be the strongest. If he believes in God, trusts Him, he can be of service to his fellowman whether he can bench press his own body weight or not. God will put him to use and strengthen him, when needed.

Whatever an artist writes while under the influence of the muse – a single word, a line or phrase, a melody – is a message in a bottle, tossed out to a wild sea of chance. There’s no guarantee anyone ever finds that message. Not everyone who reads the message will understand it. But, every now and again, one person will find the one thing he or she needs to hear, needs to read, needs to know in that moment to smile – even if only for a second.

And so we continue to write, to paint, to weave, to sculpt, to sing. We pray for God to guide our words to those who need them. We pray He continues to guide us to those words we need. And He continues to steer the seekers – not always in the direction they think is best – but in the direction they need.