Living What You Taught

Dear Little Sister,
Hey girl! So how's R.M. life treating you? I'm always glad to hear that you're staying busy, 'cause that means you're staying sane. I used to think that people who came home from their missions and started school a few days later were nuts, but after I went through the transition at the same time as you—coming home mid-May and having the whole summer ahead of you—I was actually jealous of them. I eventually got a good job a month after I returned, which I've had for the last year, and that in addition to moving to Utah kept me busy. It's so important to stay busy once you get back; you can't just serve so diligently for so long and then stop—it's like hitting a wall. And additionally, now that you've served a mission, your body and mind can tell when your "busy" activities have little or no value. It was hard to make that change, knowing that while I was supposed to be busy, it wasn't okay for me to waste all of my time.
     Mission habits can be tough to break, which can either be a good or bad thing, but it requires adaptation to your new roles. The exact behaviors you learned may not be applicable anymore, but the principles behind them are. For example, you don't have a companion by your side at every moment of the day, but you've learned the importance of surrounding yourself with good people. learning from their strengths, and being there for them when they need you.
     One of the hardest things to do, though, may be to make the transition that you're no longer invincible. Neither of us were perfect missionaries, but didn't you ever feel fearless? Unstoppable? I remember my brother telling me how he had regained that fear when he got home, and I thought it was such a strange concept. Just being a missionary, called of God and empowered with His Spirit, gave me so much confidence that as long as I was following Him, nothing could go wrong—even if it didn't go according to my plan. As long as I was following His plan, His rules, His guidance, there was nothing I couldn't do. It's not that that principle goes away, but you're not called to the same command. You're not being asked to face the front lines. You had to learn how to lead on your mission, and I think we all do, but now is the time to follow.
     I started thinking about this today when a good friend of mine, Leah, posted a profound thought on Facebook: "Imagine the people of Moses fleeing the Egyptian army. Enemies are behind them. On either side are walls of water which at any moment can come crashing down. Ahead of them lies the unknown, which could end up being worse than their present situation. If they take too much time deciding whether to head into the unknown, either the army or the water could kill them before they make up their minds. The best choice for them was to hurry into the unknown, trusting in the prophet. When you are in a metaphorical situation like this, where time is short and you don't know what's ahead, have faith and press forward. Things will eventually work out."
     As a returned missionary, you know exactly what it's like to be Moses. You know the feeling of inviting others to come unto Christ and to hurry already. You know how to trust in the Lord's direction and to take others with you, even if you don't have all the answers—you just need all the faith. But now you're back in the crowds of Israel, just another follower. You have a bunch of people around you that you can influence, for sure, but your role in leading them isn't the same. You lead by the example of how well you follow. And it can be hard to follow by faith when you're so used to being invincible.

     I've seen how that can be one of the most challenging mission habits to adjust. You taught people how to listen to the Spirit, you taught them the commandments, and you challenged them to obey them. Sometimes, they didn't understand why, but you knew that they would never gain a testimony of the principle until they'd applied it, so they just had to have faith. And now it's your turn.
     If you haven't already, you'll soon learn that post-mission life is nothing like it was before. You lived in a bubble where your responsibilities were relatively few. Now you're getting ready to go off and make your own way, applying the principles you learned both at home and in the field. Because you were a great missionary, I'm sure you're excited and confident, but I want to remind you not to overlook how you can improve.
     A while back, Konrie and I had to talk about something (I share this with her permission). It's not important what, but there was something she wanted to do that I knew wasn't okay, and it would drastically affect our family. It's vital to talk about these things, just as Konrie needs to talk to me when I'm making a decision that could have an impact on our family. We're a team. But on this one, we didn't see eye to eye. It was something I had a testimony of, and we had many sincere talks about it. We wanted to base our decision on the standards the Lord has set, so we read talks, lessons, and quotes from the Gospel Library. Nothing convinced her. She kept saying, "Just because it says that in general doesn't mean it's right for me." She kept praying that the Lord would tell her what to do, but she never felt an answer. I felt that He didn't need to tell her anymore than He already had, which was quite a bit after we'd read so much. But she wanted God to tell her explicitly before she would do it. Finally, I reminded her that she had taught so many people that they couldn't know the Book of Mormon was true until they'd read it, at least in part. He won't give us answers if we haven't put in our part.

     That reminder struck her. She couldn't believe she'd taken the place of the people she'd led on the mission, asking for a sign without putting forth the effort. It didn't take long for her to find confirmation after that—not an answer, because the Lord had already given her that through many prophets, but confirmation that the Lord was pleased with her decision.
     I'm pretty open about my weaknesses, so I'm okay with sharing my strengths. I know who I am and what I need to work on. Yes, I need a little bit of everything, but while I'm mostly lacking in patience, humility, empathy, and a few other essential Christlike attributes, I know I'm mostly okay in a couple of others, including obedience. I know it, I live it, I love it. I love obedience. Konrie has developed many of the attributes I haven't, and vice versa. We work together and help each other. I mentioned today to her, planning out this letter, how I didn't know if I'd had a similar experience to hers, asking for a sign after teaching so many people that that didn't work. She replied, "The sad thing is, I didn't think I did either. I couldn't believe it when I realized."
     Now that you're back, you'll need to transition from Moses to layman, following counsel rather than giving it. I don't know how much work that will take in your case, but be careful to keep the ground you've already won. You've seen that God is good, and you know that He will always help you. One of the principles of which my testimony is strongest is that God is much smarter than me. Don't forget that now that your biggest test is to become the person you challenged others to be. It's time to practice what you preached. You can do it!



"And now, I, Moroni, would speak somewhat concerning these things; I would show unto the world that faith is things which are hoped for and not seen; wherefore, dispute not because ye see not, for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith."

- Moroni, Ether 12:6





Konrie's Korner:

I am grateful that Richie thought to talk about this and to share my experience. As he said, I really wasn't expecting to be someone that struggled with "practice what you preach." I had grown up in the Church; we have wonderful parents that taught us to live the gospel and to be obedient. I always regarded myself as a very obedient person, but this experience kinda shook me. It is hard to see yourself differently, to realize you (just like friends and family) may not be the same person you thought you were and you need to improve both your strengths and weaknesses.

I remember one day on the mission, my companion, (whom I loved and thought highly of) sat me down on a bench and asked if we could sing a hymn and say a prayer before she told me something. She picked the song More Holiness Give Me. I could tell she was trying really hard to have the Spirit when she spoke. She told me that I was prideful and needed to be more humble. I was so hurt! I actually liked this companion and thought she liked me!! How dare she! I remember writing our mission president about it, and his response was so perfect. He told me maybe she was right, maybe I did need to be more humble...there have been many times since then that I've realized that I need to grow and improve and be willing to do so.

It is okay to not be perfect; it is okay if you realize there is room to improve—no one on this earth is perfect. You are not alone in your quest to be better. I love you, little sister. You will do amazing things—I just know it.

Fathers Who Love Their Families

Dear Little Sister,
You have an amazing father. I've only known him for about six months, but I've already seen both through his actions and the effect he's had on Konrie that he has carefully and consistently taught his children to love God, love their family, and love others. I can see what a positive influence he's had over you all, and I can tell how much he loves you. He works hard to provide for the family, and he makes sure to spend enough quality time with each of you, teaching you both principles of life as well as fun hobbies and skills. He's given me wise and inspiring counsel on multiple occasions, especially when I asked for his blessing to marry Konrie. You're very blessed to have him.
     Being a father is a sacred calling, one that should be taken seriously and with a spirit of humility. The best fathers I know have been the ones who work, teach, and rely on the Lord. But beyond these essential qualities, I think that one is above all others: love.
     Love is the greatest, most sincere reason to do anything. It's supposed to be our motivation to keep the commandments (see John 14:15), and it's the reason God sent His Son to save us (see John 3:16). It's the reason true fathers are more than just breadwinners and DNA donors. It's how their children know they can trust them, how sons know how to treat their future wives, and how daughters know how to expect their husbands to treat them.
     One of the greatest fathers that I never knew was my great-grandpa, Bernard Matli. Grandpa Matli passed away about two years before I was born, but I always loved hearing stories about him—his band, his farm, and anything else my mom could remember. I grew up playing games with Grandma Matli, and I always felt so close with her. After many years battling illness and decay of old age, she finally passed away while I was on my mission. It wasn't a surprise, but I was still sad—until I remembered that she and Grandpa could now be together. From what I've heard, there could never be a married couple as enamored as they were.

     My favorite story about Grandpa Matli covers a period of many years. He and his family ran a farm, and by the time they came in to eat dinner every night, he and the boys were exhausted—and hungry. Grandma Matli knew that her husband would be the last to come in because he always stayed behind to make sure everything was in order and ready to leave until the following day. She wanted to make sure that he got plenty of food, so she always set aside the chicken breast, the largest piece, for him before the hard-working boys came in and devoured their meal. They apparently ate a lot of chicken on this farm, which sounds like a good deal—my Grandma's fried chicken was legendary—so this happened often, time after time, year after year, my Grandma showing such love and devotion by making sure that her husband was taken care of. Years later, when the kids had gone, Grandma and Grandpa Matli continued eating chicken. Only this time, Grandpa finally served himself, and he picked out a drumstick. Grandma was shocked and said, "But dear, I thought you preferred the breast!" He replied, roughly, "No, honey, I've always liked the dark meat best. But I was so grateful for your thoughtfulness that I never said anything." Over the years, they had both served each other and done all they could to show their love for each other, and their children saw it.
     My parents are my perfect example of marital unity. Anyone who says they've never argued with their spouse is lying, but anyone who can honestly say they've never heard their parents argue had good parents. I never heard my parents argue. Sure, they fought, and they disagreed, and I could sometimes tell when they were about to or when they had done so recently, but arguments always happened out of the presence of us kids. My parents always made their decisions together and never, ever undermined the other in front of anyone else. When either spoke to us, it was always in "we," "us," and "our." Everything they did was as a team.
     You've met my parents, obviously, and you may have picked up on some things. For instance, my dad likes to talk. I get that from him. But I don't think many people realize how much talking my mom does behind the scenes. She's a singer and performer, but she doesn't always like speaking—I'm not sure why, but she doesn't tend to speak up in public. But in our home, she and my dad talked constantly, and when he speaks in public, as he likes to do, he speaks for both of them—because they've already discussed it together. When I get my mom on her own, she's as smart and quick as they come, but she prefers to step out of the spotlight in public. But my dad speaks up, making sure that my mom's view is represented.
     The loyalty they have for each other has never been in low supply. Once, my dad was driving a bunch of men from Church to a stake function of some kind, I think. Unfortunately, when men get together, they sometimes complain to each other about their wives, trying to outdo each other with how silly or inconsiderate or incompetent their wife was that one time. But this time, fed up with this kind of conversation, my dad pulled the car over to the side of the road, turned around to face the men, and said, "If you have problems with your wives, go home and talk to them about it. But I don't want to hear another word about it in this car." He turned back around and kept driving and what continued as a relatively silent ride. My dad doesn't tolerate disloyalty to spouse, and I try to follow his example.
     In addition to teaching us how to be good husbands, he taught his children how to be good fathers. I was too young for this, but when he was a private investigator, he often took my siblings on surveillance with him. Don't worry, it wasn't anything dangerous—just people falsifying injuries to get Workers' Comp and stuff. But it could take him on long road trips, and he always made sure that the kids got their own dad time. The stories and memories they made are heartwarming and hilarious, often involving a child needing to pee, and even though I couldn't go with him, I was always so grateful for a father who cared that much about his children that he wanted them to be a part of his life.

     Years later, when I was about fifteen, my family moved from Arizona back to California, which was the sixth time I had moved. I've moved eleven times now (not counting the mission), and it never really got any easier. I hated leaving friends and familiar places, especially when we seemed to leave just when I had grown to love the place I lived. People always ask what it was like to move so much. Well, I imagine it was the same for me as it is for you to have only moved once—normal.
     I learned a lot of lessons from my father during these times, but none more so than the one that took me years to fully appreciate—the one he never said, and maybe that's why the lesson is so much more powerful to me.
     This time, moving from Arizona, my dad had needed to find a new job, and most of his contacts were in California. That was by far the easiest way for him to get work, so he got a job pretty quickly, which was a huge blessing. The only consolation was that we got to move back to Carlsbad, into the same ward that I had lived in for seven years as a child.
     When you've moved eleven times, seven years is a long time to stay in one place. I don't consider any one house home, but Carlsbad is the city I'm from.
     We got to be around many of our old friends, and it was so much easier to adapt. We didn't have to deal with the stress of feeling left out or learning a whole new game in a whole new place. At the time, I just thought it was the coolest thing ever. Looking back, though, I realize what a sacrifice my dad made.
     His new job was in Cerritos, which is about an hour and a half away from Carlsbad. He had to drive three hours every day in L.A. traffic just to get to work and back—three hours that he wasn't getting paid, that he was alone, and that he was stuck in gridlock. To avoid the worst jams, he woke up at 4:30 a.m. every day and got to work by 7:00, beating the morning crowd and leaving early enough to avoid the evening ones. He had to readjust his internal clock so that he could go to bed at least by 9:00 every night, meaning that he never stayed up late again while he was working.
     For about four years, he woke up before the sun and drove a total of three hours every single day, Monday through Friday. Over 3,100 hours driving back and forth, back and forth—all so we could be with our friends. All because he felt awful taking us away from people we loved so many times, not because he wanted to but because he had to so he could take care of us. As soon as he had the chance, he made one of the biggest sacrifices I can imagine just to make the transition easier for us.
     And he never said a word.
     He never told us we needed to be more grateful, never demanded recognition, never complained. He just did it. It wasn't until I was on my mission that I realized how much he must have hated that, how much of a sacrifice he was making—just for us.

     That's the kind of father I want to be, the kind of husband I'm striving to become. I'm so grateful to the wonderful fathers in my life, especially my own, who have taught me the kind of man my family needs me to be.
     I know you're not super into dating right now, and I'm not trying to convince you to feel otherwise. But whenever that happens and you're looking for a guy, look for one like that. Look for one like your dad and like mine. Look for one who will put you first and treat you like a princess. Look for one who will do anything and everything in his power to make you happy and to take care of you and the children you'll have together.
     Fathers aren't just for making money, driving us to dances, and telling horrible yet somehow funny jokes. If we watch, if we listen, we'll see what we could be if we love the Lord, love our neighbor, and love our families.

"By the way you love her mother, you will teach your daughter about tenderness, loyalty, respect, compassion, and devotion. She will learn from your example what to expect from young men and what qualities to seek in a future spouse. You can show your daughter by the way you love and honor your wife that she should never settle for less. Your example will teach your daughter to value womanhood. You are showing her that she is a daughter of our Heavenly Father, who loves her. Love her mother so much that your marriage is celestial. A temple marriage for time and all eternity is worthy of your greatest efforts and highest priority."

- Elaine S. Dalton, Former Young Women General President (2008 - 2013)





Konrie's Korner:

My dear sister, I hope you will forgive me if I dedicate today's post to our father and what he has done for me. (also please show it to him)

I love calling my father "Daddy." I just reminds me of all the fun times we have had together as well as all the things my daddy lovingly taught me. When I was little, I would race my dad's truck to the corner to wave goodbye as he drove to work. As a family, we would every once in a while go to a park and play soccer. My dad was always so tricky to get past, especially because he used to be too big to push away from the ball ;) We still play together, but now that we are all older, the game is a little different because Dad and soccer coaches taught all the sisters and brother to be great competitors. T.V. shows like NCIS, Monk, and Scorpion as well as action/adventure movies are my favorites because that was a way my dad and I would spend quality time together in the evening.

One of my favorite times to be with my dad is during car rides when I get a one-on-one chance to ask him anything and seek his wisdom. One conversation that really helped me was what kind of guy he thought I should marry. He said I needed someone that would serve me and take care of me because I would often forget myself as I served others. His answer showed me how well he knew me, and I used it to know that Richie was the one.

I have been so blessed to have a father who lovingly teaches by example. I always loved when my dad would take me to work with him. Being a landscape contractor, he would put me on a labor-intensive task that would cause me to sweat and use all the (few) muscles I had. I always give my dad the credit when people see how easily I can help carry half a couch, because my dad would often ask one of my many sisters or me to help him load and unload his heavy tools into his truck.

My daddy is my hero and I am so grateful for his life lessons that helped me be who I am today :) I love you, Daddy.

You Are Never Too Weak for Him

Dear Little Sister,
When I was growing up, my family did a pretty good job of reading the scriptures together. My parents were also great at making sure that we always read individually before we went to bed. Much of my love for the scriptures came from the righteous example of my parents.

     One of the advantages we had as a homeschooling family was that we could have family study whenever we wanted, at whatever time of day that would ensure people were awake and/or happy to take a break from math. We had a system: everybody reads two verses in the Book of Mormon. That's one of the slowest possible ways to ever finish the book or remember the larger context behind the passages, but we were young, and it was enough. One day, however, when I was six or seven, my mom decided to switch it up.
     As we all gathered in a circle, my mom told us that just once, instead of normal reading, she would like to hear our favorite scriptures. My siblings all raced through the pages with smiles on their faces, and I was so confused.
     How could I possibly have a favorite scripture? It's not that I loved too many—I had absolutely no idea how anyone could remember where to find them. How could you know exactly what the scriptures said and exactly how to get there? That just seemed like such a crazy level of scriptural scholarship that I would never achieve.
     That day, I chose a scripture on page 11 of the Book of Mormon, because 11 is my favorite number. It was 1 Nephi 5:22, which you can unpack and learn some stuff from, but it wasn't at all like the scriptures my siblings knew. I was so impressed with them.

     Twelve years later, I recited my 100th Scripture Mastery and won my fourth consecutive scripture chase competition. Soon after, I was well-known in my MTC district and throughout my mission as a scriptorian and Gospel scholar. God made my weakness a defining strength.
     When I received my mission call, I was terrified. Since the age of five, I had attempted to learn the Spanish language. I had grown up in a Mexican environment with Hispanic family in a city barely an hour north of Mexico, yet I couldn't speak Spanish. Just like with the scriptures, I had proven to myself that I was able to learn things. I had learned to love learning, and I could master just about anything you put in front me because I was willing to work for it—except Spanish. No matter how hard I tried, how many years I studied, or how many classes I took (even in college), I just couldn't figure it out, not even passably.
     While most people long to serve their missions in a foreign country and belittle those who serve stateside, I begged God to keep me in the States. And if I had to leave, I asked to be sent to Scotland or Ireland, somewhere where I wouldn't have to learn another language. I mean, if I couldn't even learn Spanish, the second language of America and certainly of Southern California, how could I possibly learn any other?
     Like always, God heard my prayers. But He didn't answer the way I wanted Him to.
     I got my call to Chile and tried to be okay with it, but it was hard. I was scared. I prayed and fasted for peace, but I felt so incompetent. Finally, within a week of my departure, I asked my dad for a priesthood blessing. In it, among other things, he said, "You will learn Spanish, and you'll master it. In fact, you'll do it quickly." That promise kept me going for many months to follow.
     By the end of my mission, I was one of three gringo Elders generally said to have had the best Spanish in the mission. In under two years, God had loosened my tongue and made a miracle in my life, helping me overcome my worst fear that I had failed to defeat in over six times as long of trying.
     I hope you don't take either of these stories as bragging. I'm nothing without God, and I don't think much of myself for what I was able to do. I worked longer and harder than I ever have in my life to learn the scriptures and to learn Spanish, but it wasn't until God stepped in that I could make that search meaningful. The bottom line is this:
     God can make much more out of you than you could ever imagine—if you're willing to work for it.
     One of the biggest disadvantages to writing you like this is that I don't get to hear your thoughts. What do you struggle with? What have you always struggled with? What do you wish you could do that no matter how hard you try, it just seems like you'll never get there? Whatever it is, remember the promise of the Lord that He will make weak things become strong for us (see Ether 12:27). His only two conditions are that we be humble and that we have faith.
     True faith in Christ involves knowing who He is and trusting what He can do; it's believing that He can take you even at your lowest and make something out of you.

     True humility isn't being down on yourself and feeling like you'll never be enough; it's knowing that you can defeat even the most difficult challenge, but only if you do so with God.
     With so many things that God expects of us, it's easy to feel like we'll never measure up. I'm as guilty as any of breaking the commandments to be of good cheer and to love ourselves despite our weaknesses. It's hard to be imperfect before a Father with such high expectations. But in moments of clarity, I remember how good the Lord has been to me, and I remember that He loves me no matter what. I still stand all amazed at all of it—His love, His sacrifice, His salvation. It truly is wonderful.
     But most of all, it's true. Never forget that it's true. God will make so much more of you than you could ever imagine—if you're willing to work for it. And He'll do it because He loves you. You were enough for Him in Gethsemane, and you always will be.
     No matter how weak, you are enough for Him.

"The enabling and strengthening aspect of the Atonement helps us to see and to do and to become good in ways that we could never recognize or accomplish with our limited mortal capacity. I testify and witness that the enabling power of the Savior’s Atonement is real. ... Truly, brothers and sisters, in the strength of the Lord we can do and endure and overcome all things."
- Elder David A. Bednar, Quorum of the Twelve Apostles (2004 - )





Konrie's Korner:

One year at Girls Camp, I couldn't resist telling one of my friends, Bridgette, how amazing she was at something  (I no longer remember what it was) and how I wanted to be more like her. She kinda laughed and told me something I couldn't believe: she had been working on developing that attribute because she wanted to be more like me... How was it that we could so easily see the good in each other yet fail to notice the virtue in ourselves?

I firmly believe people are inherently good, which includes myself. I am striving to count my strengths as often as I count my weaknesses and view each as a stepping stone to a better me.

React to Flying Peanut Butter

Dear Little Sister,
I'm an actor. Did you know that? I haven't really told you very much about myself, so I never know what about my life will come as a surprise. But I love acting. My brothers and I made movies when I was growing up, and then I was in a high school film club and a few plays both at school and Church.
     I was once Brigham Young in a play for Young Women New Beginnings, actually. I was the only guy. It prepared me well for college, where I'm generally one of three guys in my preferred fields of study.

     Anyway, acting isn't something that I'll ever pursue professionally, and I understand it a lot better than I can do it. Have you ever had that, where your theory in something is far greater than your ability? I get that a lot. But I wanted to improve in my thespianism, so I took an acting class at BYU last fall. It was so much fun, and I learned a lot, but mostly I loved learning kinesthetically, by doing. Most college classes just make you sit down and take notes, but this one was in a giant room with twelve people (one of three guys again) all sitting along a wall facing the center of the room so we could perform for each other. And often, all of us performed at the same time, being loud and weird and not caring.
     One exercise that we did a lot was to pick a scene partner and create a scene, wherein we had to have 1 objective, 3 props, and 5 tactics. Oh yeah, everyone had to sit down at any point in the scene. We created our characters and relationships, and we had to meet between classes to run through it once or twice, we wrote down the rough points we would hit, and then we improvised. The objective was something we wanted to get out of or from the other person, e.g. money, permission to go to a party, to borrow their clothes, a date with their sibling, or in this case, that I would make my "wife" a sandwich. The props could be anything, really. It was fun to see how creative everyone got. In this scene, our props were mostly peanut butter, jelly, bread, and a knife. We may have had more, but I can't remember. Our tactics were actions words: to trick, to mimic, to pester, to deceive—things that had to be done through the other person. If my tactic were to mope, that's lame; I'm just doing it to myself. But if I switch from "to mope" to "to tantrum," then I'm wailing at the other person directly, so it's still engaging them. The scenes were only a minute and a half, so the tactics got switched up a lot. One in particular from this scene was "to strangle," which my friend and "wife," Rachel, would use on me.
     Also, in this scene—side note—we had to have a secret from each other that we wouldn't find out until after the scene. It was meant to motivate our actions without our scene partner catching on. Mine was that I had just gotten laid off, and hers was that she'd just found out that she couldn't have children. Not the most fun, obviously, but it grounded the emotion really well.
     Anyway, curtain rises. We're doing our scene. She wants me to make her a sandwich and cuddle on the couch, and I want her to go out dancing with me. We're going through our tactics—patronizing, mimicking, and guilt tripping each other. We even got to act like zombies.
     Anyway, like I said, one of her tactics that we'd decided beforehand was "to strangle," and the moment finally arrived. We were on stage right next to the "kitchen," where the PB&J stuff was set out on top of a makeshift block wall. Somehow, I upset her, and she pretended to (comically) throttle me. It sounds weird, but it made sense and it was hilarious; I promise. But when she shoved me against the wall, my back hit the peanut butter and sent it flying across the room. We both stopped in the middle of our scene and watched it go tumbling down. It was unintentionally fantastic timing. We got our composure and made a comment about it, continuing the scene.
     When we finished, we waited for everyone's feedback, and I was so worried that our professor would tell us we should've stayed in character and ignored the peanut butter. But when he critiqued us at the end, the first thing he said was that he loved it! He said it was super important to be natural, to act like real people; and when something unexpected happens, real people react.
     "All the world's a stage," and we're just trying to put on a show. There's nothing wrong with that. But I've realized that much like in acting, we have such a strict set of expectations for how everything should play out that we don't acknowledge anything out of the ordinary. We want to appear as though we have everything together and that we can't possibly make mistakes or crack under the pressure. But of course we can! We're human beings who're barely learning to walk. Life is tricky, and there's a lot we don't know.
     Sometimes, peanut butter flies across the stage. Whether or not it's your fault, whether or not it creates a mess, it still happens, and there's nothing you can do to take it back. The whole audience saw it, and you just have to deal with it. Everyone will know if you ignore it, and no matter how you react, they'll all go home talking about the flying peanut butter. So make sure that what they say is positive. You can control how they take it once it's happened, whether you make a joke out of it or make some sort of meaning. It's up to you how the audience sees your mistake, and they will always respect you for acknowledging it.
     Have you ever met somebody who laughed at his or her own mistakes? Not someone who bullies himself, but someone who recognizes his shortcomings and deals with them without taking them too seriously? It's refreshing when somebody can be that level of "real." I have a hard time with that, but I love and respect those who can say, "You know what? I'm imperfect and I'm okay with that." I think that's the ultimate sign of humility—not being ashamed that other people can see your mistakes.

     So as you transition into this new phase of life, don't be afraid to react to the flying peanut butter. Mistakes happen, and not everything goes according to plan. Have fun with it and take advantage. What may seem like a disaster at the time will eventually be a funny memory. It's not every day you get to watch peanut butter tumble across a room.





"We can make quiet but more honest inventories of our strengths, since, in this connection, most of us are dishonest bookkeepers and need confirming 'outside auditors.' He who was thrust down in the first estate delights to have us put ourselves down. Self-contempt is of Satan; there is none of it in heaven. We should, of course, learn from our mistakes, but without forever studying the instant replays as if these were the game of life itself."

~ Elder Neal A. Maxwell, Quorum of the Twelve Apostles (1981-2004)




Konrie's Korner:

I love what Richie said about the flying peanut butter, but I see another meaning. It is okay if people not only see your mistakes but that they see your weaknesses, that they see when you are struggling or afraid or sad or frustrated. Those are real human emotions, and it is completely acceptable to feel them.

Remember the saying to put yourself in someone else's shoes? How would you feel if you saw someone sad or afraid or frustrated or struggling? I think most normal people would want to help that person. What if that person was a stranger or someone we originally thought was the happiest person in the world? We would still help, I would even say that I would feel honored to help them and see that I wasn't the only one struggling with life, I would feel blessed to be able to see the person in their weak moments. If it doesn't bother us to see someone else struggling, why is it that I (and I think most people) have the tendency to believe that no one wants to see us when we are struggling? Why are we so insistent on putting on a brave face when we are actually crying on the inside?

My survival tip for this week: put yourself in someone else's shoes and allow yourself to feel, allow yourself to be helped by others when you are weak, and allow yourself to have weak moments. That is not to say we should always mope and whine and cry—we need to allow ourselves that moment to stare at the flying peanut butter and react to it, no matter who sees, then get back to the show.