How Firm a Foundation -We Never Sing the Best Verses (Part 4 of 7)

And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.

I find it interesting the author of the hymn, How Firm a Foundation uses the word “sanctify” in the fourth verse's final line.  One definition is to “set apart”; however, it has more meaning than only to set apart, but to set apart for a holy purpose.  

Sanctification is a process we go through to become more like Christ.  Dallin H. Oaks has taught:

“… This process requires far more than acquiring knowledge. It is not even enough for us to be convinced of the gospel; we must act and think so that we are converted by it. In contrast to the institutions of the world, which teach us to know something, the gospel of Jesus Christ challenges us to become something.”

--Dallin H. Oaks

It is through our deepest distresses that we become more like our Savior.

Years ago, my father gave me a book by James E. Faust called To Reach Even Unto You.  It was a collection of his speeches over the years.  He told me to read it because he had just finished it, and it had helped him quite a bit.  (It was a time in my life when I was pretty confused and was struggling with a lot of challenging life issues.)  I took the book and let it sit awhile.  And then, one night, it seemed to start to stare at me. 

It continued night after night, from my dresser where I had flung it haphazardly when my father gave it to me. The book seemed to call out to me, asking me to pick it up and read.

One evening, shortly after that and one of the most recent in a long line of significant arguments with my parents, I lay in bed fuming. 

I wondered why my life had to be so hard.  I wondered why things did not seem to be working out the way I planned them. I wondered why I couldn’t do things my way.  My way was to live life for fun without any consequences.

Again, the book seemed to implore me to read. I reached over and picked up the book, which appeared to have alerted itself to my attention. It almost called to me. Not sure how it just seemed to stand out from the other objects scattered around my room. 

The book fell open to a page with a turned-down corner.

Elder James E. Faust's talk, “Be Not Afraid,” quoted another LDS general authority's story. The story is a popular one amongst the Latter-Day Saints population.  It is by Hugh B. Brown. 

Brother Brown tells the story of when he was the gardener at his home when he looked out and saw his currant bush had grown up so much that it no longer could bear fruit.  It was using all its energy to grow like a tree. 

He knew pruning was needed so that the energy it was exerting would be used for growing currants instead of growing taller and taller.  As brother Brown pruned the little currant bush back, he felt as if the bush was crying back to him, as he told in his story:

“How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. I was almost as big as the shade tree and the fruit tree that are inside the fence, and now you have cut me down. Every plant in the garden will look down on me because I didn’t make what I should have made. How could you do this to me? I thought you were the gardener here.”

That’s what I thought I heard the currant bush say, and I thought it so much that I answered.

I said, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. I didn’t intend you to be a fruit tree or a shade tree. I want you to be a currant bush, and someday, little currant bush, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for loving me enough to cut me down. Thank you, Mr. Gardener.’”

Later, brother Brown was up for a promotion and learned that not only did he not receive the promotion, but it was because of his membership in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.  He felt abandoned and persecuted, or “pruned,” much like the little currant bush had felt.  

The story continued:

I got on the train and started back to my town, 120 miles (190 kilometers) away, with a broken heart, with bitterness in my soul. And every click of the wheels on the rails seemed to say, “You are a failure.” When I got to my tent, I was so bitter that I threw my cap on the cot. I clenched my fists, and I shook them at heaven. I said, “How could you do this to me, God? I have done everything I could do to measure up. There is nothing that I could have done—that I should have done—that I haven’t done. How could you do this to me?” I was as bitter as gall.

And then I heard a voice, and I recognized the tone of this voice. It was my own voice, and the voice said, “I am the gardener here. I know what I want you to do.” The bitterness went out of my soul, and I fell on my knees by the cot to ask forgiveness for my ungratefulness and my bitterness. ...I arose from my knees a humble man. 

And now, almost 50 years later, I look up to Him and say, “Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me.” I see now that it was wise that I should not become a general at that time, because if I had I would have been senior officer of all western Canada, with a lifelong, handsome salary, a place to live, and a pension, but I would have raised my six daughters and two sons in army barracks. They would no doubt have married out of the Church, and I think I would not have amounted to anything. I haven’t amounted to very much as it is, but I have done better than I would have done if the Lord had let me go the way I wanted to go.

This story swept through my heart and mind.  A feeling of stillness entered my anger-filled soul.  The teenage me could feel the love of the Savior and could almost hear Him say to me, I am the Gardener here…  

Comfort, hope, and an understanding of the Lord's plan replaced the anger and rebellion I felt.  My seventeen or eighteen-year-old self could teach my adult self a lesson or two.  I have, from time to time, felt cut down and pruned.  The problems of a seventeen-year-old seem insignificant when you compare them to an adult's scope, but it is incredible how often I still become angry that things do not go as I plan; I still want my way.

Both as a youth and a grown man, I sometimes feel that the world is against me, that there are unfairly placed obstacles in my way that are not there for others.  In both cases, I allow myself to blame others, the world, and even God, for my problems.  I feel like I suffer more than others, which is false.

For many years I have thought back on that evening.  And when I do, I recall that the page fell open to that story because my father, who owned the book before me, had turned down the corner. And I realize the same story must have also instructed my father, or at least brought him comfort.  My struggles as a teenager were only part of the trials my parents experienced during the years surrounding when I read the story of the gardener

My Father had received wounds during the Vietnam War that eventually caused the removal of his leg and, for most of my life, this is how I knew him. 

To the outside world, he was independent, a survivor.  He was a skier; he won downhill races against other individuals with similar situations.  He received awards and honors for his courage in the face of adversity. 

But on the inside, he began to lose his drive and eventually sank into depression. The veteran's benefits he received kept him from needing to find work. But in not working, he lost his confidence.  I recall many days he never left his bedroom. Also, near the end of 1989, my father lost his second leg.   

My father was dealt a poor hand.

In June of 1990, my parents lost their youngest son Joel to an automobile accident. 

Every other hardship they had endured paled in comparison.  My father once told me that it seemed easier to handle things and keep faith when it felt like it was only happening to him. Still, when he could do nothing to bring Joel back, it was almost unbearable, except inexplicably, a spark ignited in my father. He never said this, but he acted as if continuing to remain a passive player in his own life was unacceptable; he would now make things happen.  He never again let his disability stop him from being who he knew he should be and accomplishing his dreams.

It was around this time my father gave me that book. 

I imagine him finding comfort in the words, “I am the gardener here.”  He must have understood that God had a plan for him.  It must have helped to know that the pain he was feeling would bear fruit.

My Dad went back to school; though he had graduated with a business degree when he was younger, he now went back to school to become a teacher.  In three years, he had graduated from Weber State University.   

He began looking for work in his new field. Financially a risk because, if hired, he could lose all or most of his V.A. disability and Social Security payments.  He didn’t care; he wanted to teach. 

He applied for every opening he could.  One might assume that he would get hired in a state in such need of teachers--rejection came again and again.  His work history for the last 10-15 years was pretty nonexistent, and his honors and recognition from the M.S. Society and others could not persuade anyone to hire him.

Our family and I worried. After all, he had worked for and overcome, would he give up? 

After several years, he started substitute teaching regularly for the business computing department at the Davis Applied Technology College (DATC) in Kaysville, Utah.  The teachers loved him, and he worked very hard.  He applied for every teaching position that came up to no avail.

We continued to worry, but he kept plugging along. 

He loved working at the DATC and was willing to take any assignment they gave him and, after years of hoping and working, he got a temporary contract; then another. Eventually, he became a full-fledged teacher of Business Technology. 

Though he had not been a teacher for very long when his health caught up with him, he had poor health most of his life, learning to live with multiple sclerosis, diabetes, and many other issues.  And then, in 2004, in a matter of only weeks, he was stricken with a severe infection and died from a pulmonary embolism.  An autopsy revealed he had also been living with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. 

For me, remembering what my father puts things into perspective. It helps to have a little insight into my father's mind knowing he too found comfort in I am the gardener here. 

I still sometimes look up and wonder why my life isn't going how I planned. In those moments, I realize that my prideful, outstretched branches sometimes need to be pruned back; so they can bear fruit.  

Elder David A Bednar taught us how Christ makes our burdens light by strengthening us:

The unique burdens in each of our lives help us to rely upon the merits, mercy, and grace of the Holy Messiah. I testify and promise the Savior will help us to bear up our burdens with ease…we will become agents who act rather than objects that are acted upon. We will be blessed with spiritual traction.

—David A. Bednar

I can think of no better example of this than my father.  Christ did not give him his legs or his son back.  He gave him a renewed vigor to grow. 

Like the currant bush, it seems that sometimes God strengthens us by cutting us down.  To our mortal minds, it can seem counter-intuitive.  

Wherein ye greatly rejoice, though now for a season, if need be, ye are in heaviness through manifold temptations:  That the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honour and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ

--1 Peter 1:6-7

It’s not that God keeps all troubles away; he blesses your troubles.  It’s not that he keeps us from distress; he sanctifies our distress so that we are not crushed or burned to ashes.

 

When through the deep waters I call thee to go,

The rivers of woe shall not thee overflow;

For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless,

And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.