Caring is better

This post is part of the General Conference Odyssey. This week covers the Sunday Afternoon Session of the October 1978 Conference.

When Sam and I were dating, I remember several conversations in which I tried to convince him that there was value in being a sports fan. He, thoughtful and wonderful person that he is, had decided after his mission that he would give up watching sports altogether, for the sake of his future wife. He had seen too many people using sports as an excuse to be angry or neglectful or rude, and he didn't want to be that kind of husband. But then he met me, and I loved football and basketball and volleyball, and wanted nothing more than for him to enjoy with me those things he'd so nobly given up! Poor well-meaning Sam.

Anyway, as I recall, part of my argument in favor of sports-watching was that there was something worthwhile in throwing your whole heart into cheering for a team you loved. When you decide to care about and be loyal to a specific team, it's true that there's the potential for much agony and heartbreak (looking at you, BYU Football) but that's what makes you feel so joyful when things go well!

Eventually Sam came around and became as wonderful a BYU fan as I could have wished for (without exhibiting any of those boorish tendencies he'd wanted so desperately to avoid), so that ended happily. But I confess, as time has gone on, I have lost a little of my own willingness to invest my heart and soul in BYU sports. I still care about the teams…somewhat. But I used to watch or listen to every game to the bitter end, win or lose. Now I find myself reluctant to even turn on the radio, sometimes, when I'm fearing a tough loss. It's just so hard to really, really hope for something…and then be disappointed!

I know it doesn't really matter, with sports, whether I care or not. Maybe I should take it as a sign of my maturity and growing perspective that I'm starting to be less invested in what happens? (Haha.) But the trouble is that I sometimes demonstrate that same sort of reluctance when it comes to matters of faith. When I'm not sure how something will or should work out in my life (or for someone that I care about), I'm sometimes hesitant to really throw myself into praying for it with all my heart. I'm afraid that if I care and hope too much for an outcome, I'll be too disappointed if it doesn't happen that way! I'm scared to even open myself up to that kind of struggle.

I found a rebuke for this kind of hesitancy in Elder John H. Groberg's talk, "Come Home, Felila." He always tells such great stories about his time in the Pacific Islands, and in this talk he told about a girl named Felila who was born with severe physical disabilities. Her family was willing to try anything to help her live. Friends and ward members helped arrange for her care in Salt Lake—a host family, qualified doctors, hospital care, and hundreds of other details. Everyone threw their whole hearts into trying to help. Elder Groberg himself followed several strong and urgent impressions to make calls, arrange passport papers, etc. so that everything would be ready for Felila's journey.

One day, after taking care of a few more details and seeing that all the preparations had miraculously fallen into place for Felila to depart the very next day, Elder Groberg felt an impression to go visit Felila's branch president. When he arrived, he got the startling news that little Felila had died that morning. And as you can imagine, he was devastated:

Gone? This morning? But all that work, all that time, all that fasting and praying and those strong feelings. Gone? No!… 

And I was left alone, or so it seemed. I moved slowly and heavily down that dusty trail. Why? Why? After all that work and that strong faith of so many and those impressions, why?

I can so relate to how he felt! When something like this happens, it makes you want to start questioning everything! Did I even really feel that prompting? Have I been mistaken all along? Have I been totally foolish to think my little worries and efforts even mattered?

But even as Elder Groberg had these feelings, the spirit overcame him. This is how he describes it:

It was as though one took me by the hand and led me to a high place and stood by me and said, “Look.” And I looked and beheld such beauty and magnificence as man cannot conceive. And I heard a voice, such a tender, compassionate voice—yet so unmistakably powerful—that all nature stood still and listened and obeyed. 

“Come home, Felila, my daughter. Come home to the care your loved ones have sought for you. I have heard their prayers and have known their fasting and love for you, and I answer, Come home, my daughter. You have finished your mission in life. Hearts have been softened; souls have been stretched; faith has been increased. Come home now, Felila.” 

He knew her! He knew her name. He knew all about her and about all those others. How perfect our Father’s love! He had heard the prayers. He had done what was best. He knew everything—which thing, though I believed, I never had supposed. In some marvelous way, which is beyond our mortal comprehension, he knows and understands all things. 

My questions as to why—as to justice and reasons—were all at that moment completely swept away. They were so irrelevant, my questioning so totally out of place, like one trying to dig the Grand Canyon with a teaspoon.

As I read this, I realized that I have had this same experience—though maybe in a smaller form—myself. It's not something I can easily convey the significance of. But it took place many years ago after I had an earnest conversation with my bishop about Jesus Christ's atonement. I remember saying to the bishop, "But how? How is it possible that Christ knows what it's like to sin, and hate yourself for it? I know He 'somehow' felt what we feel, but the truth is, He was still perfect! So how could he understand the pain of being so terrible and imperfect as I am?"

The bishop, wisely, said, "I don't know. Why don't you ask Him?"

So I went home and, very halting and confusedly, asked Him. "Lord, how is it done? How do you understand such things?" And the answer I got was almost amusing in its simplicity: "It doesn't matter how. I just do."

Now, when you are confused and discouraged about something, it doesn't seem like that sort of answer—"It doesn't matter how or why!"—would be at all helpful! And probably just telling someone about it isn't helpful. But for me, as for Elder Groberg, the actual experience of receiving that answer was satisfying. It was comforting. And it was enlightening. For those few moments, I really did glimpse how unimportant such a question was. God loves me and has everything well in hand! What else do I really need to know?

In his talk, Elder Groberg goes on to describe something else important about these kinds of experiences: the fact that, even though we don't understand them fully, they still matter. The fact that they are confusing doesn't make them useless. Elder Groberg says:

Some say, “But it has been years. We have fasted and prayed so long and so hard. What does the Lord expect?” 

There may be many answers. I give only one. That is: He expects more, and it will be for your eternal benefit and blessing. That I know. As we begin to comprehend eternity, we gain a whole new catalog of values. …

Do not be discouraged; do not attempt to counsel the Lord. He determines, not you. He knows hearts and souls and needs. He measures intents and knows spirits. 

Caring is all-important—the intensity, the duration, the amount, the quality, the extent. For in God’s wisdom, caring creates faith.

I feel like it's so important for me to remember this. "Caring is all-important." To throw ourselves into fasting and prayer, to allow ourselves to hope and invest and ache for an outcome—and all the while knowing there's a possibility we will, in the end, be disappointed in our hopes—and being open to that too—all this is a valuable and necessary part of learning to trust God.

I'm not sure how to do this, fully, and I don't think I'm very good at doing it. A sort of fatalistic indifference is easier. Giving up is easier. Pre-emptive dismissal of hope is easier. But caring is better. And God will bless and comfort those who, through confusion, through disappointment after disappointment, keep caring and hoping and trusting Him.


Other posts in this series:

• Knowing Truth is Happiness by Jan Tolman