Everyone has a book to write.

Jeff is out of town and I miss him desperately. I guess you could say I’m somewhat of a
loser because I am lost without him. Yet, I think these times are good for me.
Very good. It is these times that I find myself taking the time to get to know
me better. I like to think of it as
“writing my own book.”

I used to think that those who had reason to write a book
must have overcome some unbeatable odds, be eloquent in writing, or have an
idea that would change the world. Now I like to think of it as just me changing
my own little world by recording the small and simple things that when put
together, mark the path that leads to a fulfilling life.

So here’s my chapter for today…

I recently read something that struck a thousand chords within me. A
story from Marjorie Pay Hinckley.

Some years ago I had a friend who decided at the age of
fifty that she was going to learn to play the piano. Each morning she went to
the church at seven o’clock, where she would practice on the piano and, later,
on the organ. After about a year they asked her to play a special number for
one of the Relief Society lessons. She said she didn’t feel ready, to give her
another three months. The three months passed, and she consented to play a
special number that she had memorized. This was her first public appearance on
the piano. She started out beautifully. It went well for about three measures;
then she lost it. Everything went blank. Her music teacher, who was present,
said, “Don’t be ruffled. Just start over.” She started over and made it all the
way through without a single mistake.
We have never loved my friend more than we did that morning.
Perhaps it was because she faltered a little in the beginning and we were all
pulling for her, saying to ourselves, “Come on, we know you can do it.” If her
performance had been flawless from the start, we might have all been defensive
and said, “Oh well, she can learn to play the piano because her husband is the
kind who will get his own breakfast while she practices the piano and her
children don’t make demands on her” and so on and so on. As it was, she
faltered a little, and we loved her the more. That experience has given me
great comfort. I figure that if I fall a little short of what is expected of
me, perhaps my sisters in the gospel will be compassionate and love me for
trying.

Last night I spoke with a good friend on the phone. I have
known her for over two years. I have always admired her. I see her as strong and able to handle
pressure with such composure. She is an amazing leader. All qualities I have
yet to master. Tonight when we spoke, she cried. She felt like a failure. I
have never heard her cry before. In
that moment, I loved her more. It was
okay to falter, to be weak, to let me know she wasn’t strong at that moment. It
made me really love her.

And it leads me to this…I am a walled woman. I don’t know
why I have built them, but they are there. It is a nasty wall. It has perfection
spray painted all over it. I hide behind it hoping that no one will see my imperfections
because then they might think less of me. I pride myself on keeping that wall
tight and impenetrable. I think it will keep me from being hurt but really it
just keeps me behind it unable to establish meaningful relationships that I so
greatly need. I allow a few people in
every now and then. But I find myself pasting the hole again not willing to be
vulnerable.

Luckily, I have allowed Jeff to see everything. Every single thing.
Although at times he has had to sit on the edge of the bed and wait. Wait, while
I fight to keep him from it. Bless him for waiting for me. Bless him.

This experience last night has lifted me. I think I am ready.
No. I know I am ready. It is time to let this beast called perfection go. To
not care what people think but what He thinks. It is time to be weak. Be
susceptible. Be able to falter. Then…then I can be loved more.

Thee lift me and I’ll lift thee and we’ll both ascend
together.  John Greenleaf Whittier