My Humble Perspective of God

As missionaries our main objective is to strengthen people's
relationships with God. In Japan, this means we have to introduce
people to their own Heavenly Father. I've had the awesome opportunity
of teaching people who have never even thought about God that God not
only lives but loves them too. Up until last week though, I'd been
carrying around the wrong impression of God in my head.

After I opened my call to Tokyo, Japan, I told a lot of people "Yeah.
God wanted to humble me. He probably laaaaaaaaaaughed."
When I got the e MTC Elder Dallin H. Oaks came and spoke to us. He
held up his pen and told us to imagine that we are the pen and he is
God. He told us a good pen writes all the time. It's true isn't it? We
all know our excellent pen that writes all the time and we all know
our pen we stole from our dentist that can't be trusted to write no
matter how much you roll it between your hands, lick the tip or
nothing. "A good pen," he said, "writes even when it's tired, even
when it's P-Day. I can always count on this pen to write." He went on
to say that we ought to be dependable servants of God and perform our
duty no matter what.

Well I still feel tired. I am a terrible pen. Have you ever noticed
how quick people are the throw away whiteboard markers? The poor
marker is doing it's best, using up the last bit of its ink but it's
still not visible enough so it gets thrown away. And I mean THROWN
AWAY. No one ever walks it over the garbage and drops it in, everyone
chucks it at the nearest garbage can. Ever since I heard this analogy
from Elder Oaks I've taken incredible offense at the disposal of
markers which is ridiculous I know but I've personalized this marker.
I feel for this marker, I am this marker. Sometimes I look at all my
pitfalls and I think I am a terrible marker. I can barely write well
on a good day, let alone every day! Sometimes my ink spills all over
the page and sometimes nothing comes out. Sometimes I write with all
my might but my ink is so low no one can read what was written. It's
easy for me to think these thoughts and then think: God's thrown me
away. I've been proven a poor pen and He cannot trust me to do His
work. And then what makes it worse is looking around at other
missionaries. Look at that pen! It sings as it writes! This pen is
ginormous! Look how dark it's ink is! This pen can write upside down,
under water, uphill both ways! I've felt like a broken down marker
lookin at the other markers from the garbage can plenty a time.

But this past week I heard someone say: "God wants to use you" and
that changed everything. I realized that God is not an impatient high
school teacher itching to throw markers away. He wants to use us no
matter how little ink we have. Christ died on the cross so He could
supply us with His ink (grace) and help us keep on writing. The fact
of the matter is, if Ye have desires to serve God Ye are called to the
work. Even if you've got no ink left, you're laying on the floor, lid
is off, tip is chewed, and you want to write, God will use you as an
instrument in His hands. This is because we are not just markers to
God we are His children. He loves us. I know that He didn't send me to
Tokyo to humble me but because He knew it was the place I would be the
most successful. He didn't give me Sister G. as a companion to
force me to realize all the mistakes I make while speaking Japanese
but to help my language skills launch into orbit.

 

When you think about it, what kind of a father, when he puts his hand around his child,
would like to see their child shrink or flinch from the gesture? God loves us. He doesn't
want us to see Him as some vindictive being, out to torment us. I know
that He has asked mankind to call Him Father. It's the closest earthly
concept we've got to the true character of God.

There's a beautiful hymn that I love that sounds way pessimistic at
first but once I pondered the words it had a ton of meaning to me.

My God, my Portion, and my Love
My Everlasting All
I've none but Thee in heav'n above
Or on this earthly ball.
What empty things are all the skies,
And this inferior clod!
There's nothing here deserves my joys,
There's nothing like my God.
In vain the bright, the burning sun,
Scatters his feeble light
'Tis Thy sweet beams create my noon;
If Thou withdraw, 'Tis night

See you soon,

Sister Goldsberry