I have been wanting to create a personal blog for some time now but I've continued to push it off or make an excuse like, "What do I have that's interesting to say?" or "Who would even care to read what I write?"
And while I still think I don't have much to say that's interesting or that many people will read what I write I have come to this conclusion: I am not writing a blog for others, I am writing for me. Perhaps as a feeble attempt of a journal, or just a digital relief to the piles of sticky notes that I have up to this point piled on my desk.
Either way, here I go.
It isn't coincidence that I'm writing today. Today marks the anniversary of one of the most defining moments of my life up to this point. Today is the five year anniversary of my brother's passing. For those of you who don't know the situation let me provide you with a little context, at least from my perspective.
In May of 2009 I entered the Missionary Training Center (MTC) to begin my missionary service. I was called to serve in the Georgia Atlanta North mission and would depart for Atlanta on the 9th of June (if memory serves me correctly). I was eager. I was excited. I was anxious.
In fact, anxiety has always been something that I have dealt with, and by always I mean since the 6th grade when I first began to have panic attacks. But that's not the point of this story.
As we arrived at the mission home I was assigned my training companion and lucky for me I would be serving in the same ward as my mission president. As we got to work the first few days I was so grateful that I was assigned to work with my trainer and in the area we were supposed to be. The area had experienced a lot of previous success and the members were amazing. I thought to myself, I could stay here for a long time and really do the Lord's work.
After an exhausting and exhilarating first few days it was time for our first Sunday. I was convinced that the ten people we had invited to come to church would make it. But, as those who have served missions know, I was disappointed to find that no one showed. As we sat there during the opening hymn of sacrament meeting I noticed how the mission president pulled one of his assistants off the stand (we had three at the time, so don't worry no one was alone) and began to walk towards my companion and I in the back.
As my mission president approached he asked if I could come meet with him and left the other Elder to sit with my companion. Knowing that my mission president knew about my struggles with anxiety and was a first hand witness of the panic attack I had experienced in the mission home on my first night I figured he was probably checking in with me, see how I was doing. After all, that was the reason I was starting my mission in the same ward, right?
As we sat down in his office I put on my best smile, telling him of the work that my companion and I had been doing and that while no one had shown up for Church I was optimistic at our prospects. After a moment of polite listening my mission president waited for a pause and said:
"This isn't easy to do Elder Davies, but I'm sorry to inform you that your oldest brother has passed away."
I'm not exactly sure what was said next. My world was silent. I could see lips moving and feel the tears streaming from my face, but there was no audible sound to my ears. "What was he saying?" I thought to myself. "What does he mean my brother has passed away? He's only 30 years old. How could he have passed away?" My brain began to run through all the possible scenarios of the hows and could be's but nothing made sense.
"I'm going to call your parents and let you talk to them. I've connected with your brother's mission president and we'll get you in contact a little bit later," came the voice of my mission president.
Next thing I knew I was on the phone with my parents. Something I hadn't anticipated doing for another six months at Christmas, but on the other end was a voice so familiar and yet so missed that I lost any control I had on my emotions. As we spoke I remember crying, "I don't know if I can do this," something that I'm convince almost anyone who has served as a missionary of any kind has felt.
Then, with words both reassuring and peaceful came the voices of my parents, "Oh son, we love you. We believe in you." It wasn't in a you-need-to-stay-out-there tone. My parents had made it very clear even before I started my papers that given my history with anxiety they were supportive of whatever decision I made. Just as they always have been.
In fact, now as I think about it, these weren't just words of my parents. They were the words of my Heavenly Father also, spoken to me through my earthly parents, acting as angels of His peace.
Through the tears and tissue boxes (I think I must have gone through two full boxes) came a sweet peace. In the moment the peace felt like a numbing. You know the kind of numb when the dentist fills in a cavity and half your face is asleep. But this, this was a numbing of my soul. At the time I didn't realize it, but I believe that it was the numbing power of the Spirit.
I know, numb isn't one of the feeling we typically associate with the Spirit, but in this case, a case of such emotional trauma and shock the Lord in his mercy allowed me to feel numb. Then slowly a warmth, not a burning in the bosom as I often feel with great testimony moments, but a sort of confidence that someone beyond myself was in control, and it was He of whom I was serving.
After hanging up the phone and trying to wipe my face (and the desk) dry I stepped out of the office to let my mission president know I had finished my phone call. Then came the moment in which my life was defined. Now, I believe that every day is made up of these little moments when we make small choices that have continual consequences. But this, this is one of those "big moments," one of those "two roads diverging into the woods" moments.
"My mission president sat me down and with great love stated: "Now, if you want to go home Elder Davies, I will understand. No one, and I mean no one will think any less of you."
"No," I replied. "If I go now, I will not come back."
Looking back now I realize that I didn't even think that he could be referring to going home for good or going home just for the funeral. But it didn't matter. I had made my choice. I made it long ago and remade it everyday leading up to that moment. I had fought to get out there and I would fight to stay.
Later, as I spoke to my older brother who was serving a mission across the pond there came a great sense of hope and reassurance. The Davies brothers were fully engaged in the work, all four of us, on both sides of the veil. My youngest brother, still in high school, lived the gospel simply through his perseverance and as such stood as an example of Christ, even without a formal name tag.
I hope not to mislead anyone that cheery was the disposition of myself and my family during this time. Rest assured that after the numb had worn off that mortality quickly set in. The struggle became a reality every morning as I woke. But just as we all do, I fought the best I knew how under the circumstances trying to do my best to teach the gospel that has brought me so much peace.
Yes, even in this --what may have been one of the most challenging moments of my life... up to this point-- I knew what I knew: The Lord loves all of His children and He has a plan for them. That is why I had come and that was why I stayed. I had been called to teach that exact message to the people of this area, and that is what I was going to do.
Do I miss my brother? In some ways yes. I miss the guffaw from the basement as he watched a movie, I miss the hundred dollars bills to go buy pizza for a party and I miss knowing that would never lose a fist fight.
But in many ways my Father has given me the gifts that keep my brother with me until we meet again on holier ground. The gift of appreciating a DQ Dilly Bar like no one else. The gift of remember a gravity-defying magic of a trampoline filled with nieces and nephews almost touching the ground as their J J bounced. And on the days when I begin to wonder which road I should have taken that day I feel the gift of my brother's big arms surrounding me in a bear hug remind me that I did.
You see, five years ago I lost one brother. But because of Our Brother and His sacrifice I will meet him again. In many ways different than I knew him here: less burdened, more refined and more complete. And in many ways the same person that I have always known: kind, generous and loyal.
And while I still think I don't have much to say that's interesting or that many people will read what I write I have come to this conclusion: I am not writing a blog for others, I am writing for me. Perhaps as a feeble attempt of a journal, or just a digital relief to the piles of sticky notes that I have up to this point piled on my desk.
Either way, here I go.
It isn't coincidence that I'm writing today. Today marks the anniversary of one of the most defining moments of my life up to this point. Today is the five year anniversary of my brother's passing. For those of you who don't know the situation let me provide you with a little context, at least from my perspective.
In May of 2009 I entered the Missionary Training Center (MTC) to begin my missionary service. I was called to serve in the Georgia Atlanta North mission and would depart for Atlanta on the 9th of June (if memory serves me correctly). I was eager. I was excited. I was anxious.
In fact, anxiety has always been something that I have dealt with, and by always I mean since the 6th grade when I first began to have panic attacks. But that's not the point of this story.
As we arrived at the mission home I was assigned my training companion and lucky for me I would be serving in the same ward as my mission president. As we got to work the first few days I was so grateful that I was assigned to work with my trainer and in the area we were supposed to be. The area had experienced a lot of previous success and the members were amazing. I thought to myself, I could stay here for a long time and really do the Lord's work.
After an exhausting and exhilarating first few days it was time for our first Sunday. I was convinced that the ten people we had invited to come to church would make it. But, as those who have served missions know, I was disappointed to find that no one showed. As we sat there during the opening hymn of sacrament meeting I noticed how the mission president pulled one of his assistants off the stand (we had three at the time, so don't worry no one was alone) and began to walk towards my companion and I in the back.
As my mission president approached he asked if I could come meet with him and left the other Elder to sit with my companion. Knowing that my mission president knew about my struggles with anxiety and was a first hand witness of the panic attack I had experienced in the mission home on my first night I figured he was probably checking in with me, see how I was doing. After all, that was the reason I was starting my mission in the same ward, right?
As we sat down in his office I put on my best smile, telling him of the work that my companion and I had been doing and that while no one had shown up for Church I was optimistic at our prospects. After a moment of polite listening my mission president waited for a pause and said:
"This isn't easy to do Elder Davies, but I'm sorry to inform you that your oldest brother has passed away."
I'm not exactly sure what was said next. My world was silent. I could see lips moving and feel the tears streaming from my face, but there was no audible sound to my ears. "What was he saying?" I thought to myself. "What does he mean my brother has passed away? He's only 30 years old. How could he have passed away?" My brain began to run through all the possible scenarios of the hows and could be's but nothing made sense.
"I'm going to call your parents and let you talk to them. I've connected with your brother's mission president and we'll get you in contact a little bit later," came the voice of my mission president.
Next thing I knew I was on the phone with my parents. Something I hadn't anticipated doing for another six months at Christmas, but on the other end was a voice so familiar and yet so missed that I lost any control I had on my emotions. As we spoke I remember crying, "I don't know if I can do this," something that I'm convince almost anyone who has served as a missionary of any kind has felt.
Then, with words both reassuring and peaceful came the voices of my parents, "Oh son, we love you. We believe in you." It wasn't in a you-need-to-stay-out-there tone. My parents had made it very clear even before I started my papers that given my history with anxiety they were supportive of whatever decision I made. Just as they always have been.
In fact, now as I think about it, these weren't just words of my parents. They were the words of my Heavenly Father also, spoken to me through my earthly parents, acting as angels of His peace.
Through the tears and tissue boxes (I think I must have gone through two full boxes) came a sweet peace. In the moment the peace felt like a numbing. You know the kind of numb when the dentist fills in a cavity and half your face is asleep. But this, this was a numbing of my soul. At the time I didn't realize it, but I believe that it was the numbing power of the Spirit.
I know, numb isn't one of the feeling we typically associate with the Spirit, but in this case, a case of such emotional trauma and shock the Lord in his mercy allowed me to feel numb. Then slowly a warmth, not a burning in the bosom as I often feel with great testimony moments, but a sort of confidence that someone beyond myself was in control, and it was He of whom I was serving.
After hanging up the phone and trying to wipe my face (and the desk) dry I stepped out of the office to let my mission president know I had finished my phone call. Then came the moment in which my life was defined. Now, I believe that every day is made up of these little moments when we make small choices that have continual consequences. But this, this is one of those "big moments," one of those "two roads diverging into the woods" moments.
"My mission president sat me down and with great love stated: "Now, if you want to go home Elder Davies, I will understand. No one, and I mean no one will think any less of you."
"No," I replied. "If I go now, I will not come back."
Looking back now I realize that I didn't even think that he could be referring to going home for good or going home just for the funeral. But it didn't matter. I had made my choice. I made it long ago and remade it everyday leading up to that moment. I had fought to get out there and I would fight to stay.
Later, as I spoke to my older brother who was serving a mission across the pond there came a great sense of hope and reassurance. The Davies brothers were fully engaged in the work, all four of us, on both sides of the veil. My youngest brother, still in high school, lived the gospel simply through his perseverance and as such stood as an example of Christ, even without a formal name tag.
I hope not to mislead anyone that cheery was the disposition of myself and my family during this time. Rest assured that after the numb had worn off that mortality quickly set in. The struggle became a reality every morning as I woke. But just as we all do, I fought the best I knew how under the circumstances trying to do my best to teach the gospel that has brought me so much peace.
Yes, even in this --what may have been one of the most challenging moments of my life... up to this point-- I knew what I knew: The Lord loves all of His children and He has a plan for them. That is why I had come and that was why I stayed. I had been called to teach that exact message to the people of this area, and that is what I was going to do.
Do I miss my brother? In some ways yes. I miss the guffaw from the basement as he watched a movie, I miss the hundred dollars bills to go buy pizza for a party and I miss knowing that would never lose a fist fight.
But in many ways my Father has given me the gifts that keep my brother with me until we meet again on holier ground. The gift of appreciating a DQ Dilly Bar like no one else. The gift of remember a gravity-defying magic of a trampoline filled with nieces and nephews almost touching the ground as their J J bounced. And on the days when I begin to wonder which road I should have taken that day I feel the gift of my brother's big arms surrounding me in a bear hug remind me that I did.
You see, five years ago I lost one brother. But because of Our Brother and His sacrifice I will meet him again. In many ways different than I knew him here: less burdened, more refined and more complete. And in many ways the same person that I have always known: kind, generous and loyal.
