Jesus wept.

Tonight I had the pleasure of putting my wise little Professor to bed. The routine starts with getting pajamas on, of course, and then family prayer (minus my little Colonel who is already in bed by this point). Next is scripture book. Each night Howard or I read a page from Book of Mormon Stories (or Bible stories) to him before reading a few library books about trains or trucks or puppy dogs tails.

So after prayers tonight, in which the Professor kindly invited Heavenly Father to play with his geo-trax train set with him, I opened the scripture book at the bookmark and found that tonight's story was "Jesus Christ Blesses the Children," a story simplified from the account of the events found in 3 Nephi chapter 17 in the Book of Mormon.

In the story, Jesus prays for the Nephites, and his prayer cannot be written. It fills the people with great joy, though, and Jesus shares in that feeling. The story says, "[Jesus] felt so much love and happiness that he wept."

As I read this out loud to my son, it came to me that Jesus must have welcomed these feelings of love and joy just as much as the people he was blessing. It wasn't just for them, this spiritual bonding. It was for him, too. The work and trauma and pain of the Atonement and Crucifixion were just a few short days ago, and while his Resurrection and Ascension to the Father in the intervening days undoubtedly healed him and fulfilled him, I think the memories of those difficult moments were still probably fresh in his mind.

I know, it's all supposition.

But when I have just been through something difficult, after I've felt alone and down, after I've suffered with whatever kind of pain, after that, when I get to feel true joy again, when I get to connect with people who really love me, when I get to feel the Holy Ghost strongly, I weep. I can't help it. I weep with relief that the pain is over and with joy because I know that if I'm now feeling this way again, I am loved. That Heavenly Father loves me. So perhaps that's part of what Christ was feeling.

It was a moment of insight that brought me comfort because I felt, after that 60-second scripture session with my son, that I knew and understood the Savior just a little bit better. And that's something I have prayed for. And it was a moment I will remember because it was one of those rare times that I felt I could relate to the greatest man who ever lived on this earth.

Quickly I Obey?

Today was stake conference and instead of sitting on metal folding chairs in the gym of our church building for two hours with two little boys who would not be capable of sitting still, we went for the soft seats in the relief society room where a television screen was showing what was going on in the chapel. It was very nice. Lots of young ones in that room and very little pressure to keep them all quiet as mice. The kids didn't exactly run around in there, but they didn't exactly stay in their seats either.

The little one (hereafter referred to as Colonel) was making a game of walking across the room to the piano, turning around to lean against the piano's back, and smiling coyly back at us. It was cute and very non-disruptive.

Then the three-year-old (hereafter referred to as Professor) decided he ought to try this game. Somehow not so cute and a bit disruptive. I reached out toward him and whispered a request for him to come back.

"NOooo!" he squealed.

I looked at their dad (hereafter called Howard Ently or just Howard) for assistance. He likewise gestured and whispered a firm command. Come here!

Professor again said no and looked at us a bit. So I'm wracking my brain for how to get the desired result without causing a loud screamy scene with everyone who's behind us in the room watching; I'm worrying that I'm a terrible parent because I never enforce my boundaries; I'm wondering what all these people are thinking of my parental impotence.

But it was all a waste because as I finished those thoughts, Professor walked right back over and sat down in his chair.

Oh. Okay.

Now, you might say he just got tired of being over there and was ready to come back. But I think he just needed a little time to think about the parental requests and to decide on his own if he wanted to obey.

I have these expectations that immediately upon hearing my commands, he's going to jump up and do exactly what I've asked him. And sure, sometimes he does. But as I reflected on that little moment, I realized that usually, yes usually, he responds with an immediate "NO!" and then, if I leave him alone a bit, he'll obey in a few minutes.

I mean, think about it. When someone (say, God for example, or maybe one of His chosen prophets) asks me to do something, do I jump up and obey immediately?

So it's not that my boy is disobedient or defiant, as it sometimes seems. I don't obey immediately sometimes because I'm not sure I'm up for it or I'm afraid of the result or that following the command will be painful or unpopular. Sometimes I just need a moment to think about how much I trust the person who's made the request. Is it a good request? Sometimes it's simply a human need to let some time pass so we feel we are doing it because we want to and not because we have to. Not blind following but chosen obedience.

I guess I need to adjust my expectations. I can ask for Professor to come back to me and then be silent and watch and wait for his decision. I can be a little more patient, as I hope my heavenly parents are with me.

On the other hand, if I expect speedy obedience from my three-year-old, shouldn't God be able to expect a bit of the same from me?

Wondering

I've been wondering for a while what it is I intended to do when I decided to start this blog. One friend, who noticed the blog's appearance but its continued lack of posts, chided me. She noted the irony: an empty blog about faith. What was I trying to say, she wanted to know.

And since then, I've been asking myself the same question. What is it I want to say? What do I want people to know about my beliefs? Why am I afraid to write anything here? How long am I going to wait before I start posting? Until I have the perfect thing to say?

As a writer, I have never functioned well that way. When I complained about not knowing how to go about writing something, my mother would always say, "Just start writing." How I hated that, but it worked. And so, as much as I'm not sure how to begin or what I want to say or how religious and/or preachy and/or crazy mormon-ish I will come across, I just have to start. A leap of faith, if you will please excuse the atrocious cliche.