My Fast Solution to the Drought

On May, 2015July, 2015 By Peter WatkinsIn 20152 Comments

Dear Will:

If you drive east on Katella Avenue toward Orange Park Acres and the canyons beyond, you come to large dip in the road where it crosses the recharge basin for Santiago Creek. I’ve always assumed that scoop in the road to be a sort of flood control precaution—you know, should the creek swell and overwhelm the surrounding cavity.

As if. The water level in the basin has been so low for so long that the thought of flooding would be laughable if the situation weren’t so sad. Because of that near-empty hollow, I have come to dread that eastbound drive toward my home. It has become an almost-daily reminder of the prolonged drought which prompted California Governor Jerry Brown to declare a State of Emergency in January. How bad is it? They say that this drought (four years old and counting) is the worst in over 100 years. Snow packs are disappearing. Lakes and reservoirs are shrinking. Farms are lying fallow. The drought even has its own website. And its own logo.

State of California Drought Portal Logo

And now that the governor has imposed restrictions on how often and how long we can run our sprinklers, my lawn, along with countless others, has begun what promises to be a slow, brown death.

I suppose it’s only fair. They say that not watering my lawn is the single best way for me to contribute to the conservation effort; so OK, I’ll do my part. But as I look out on the thirsty landscape and ponder the seeming impossibility of reversing years of irresponsible environmental practices and unchecked modern living, I can’t help but hope for some Divine Intervention—that God, in His infinite mercy, will bless us far beyond our merit and call down steady, prolonged rains upon our parched and withering state.

But how in the world could we actually make that petition? Elijah ended a drought single-handedly, but then again, it was a drought of his own making (see 1 Kings 17 and 18)—plus he had the benefit of the sealing power. I lack both the power and the panache of that guy. What could I or any of us do to call down the powers of heaven from our relatively powerless and obscure positions?

The short answer: I’m not sure. But I do have one idea worth trying. Isaiah taught that if we observe a true fast, setting aside our own physical needs to share with those less fortunate, the blessings are numerous—including this one: “And the LORD shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, and make fat thy bones: and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not” (Isaiah 58:11).

I realize, of course, that in his typically metaphorical prose, Isaiah was likely not referring to a literal drought. But why not? We are not far from the day in which the dry land will begin to have a desiccating impact on our souls as well. What’s more, I can’t think of a more worthy appeal to make during a prayerful fast, especially as we allow that period of physical deprivation to cause our hearts to go out to those around us who suffer from want. In fact, Isaiah says that one of the other blessings of a heartfelt fast is this: “Then shalt thou call, and the LORD shall answer; thou shalt cry, and he shall say, Here I am” (Isaiah 58:9).

So here’s my plan: Beginning next Sunday (June 7), and on the first Sunday of every month hereafter, I intend to put Isaiah to the test. I will abstain from food and water for 24 hours. I will contribute what I might have spent on food that day (and then some) as an offering to assist the needy. And between now and then, I will plead to God for rain—and lots of it. I’m not so arrogant as to think that my humble prayers will be sufficient to solve a four-year drought, but if I could get you—and many others like you—to join me in this effort, who knows? I think it’s certainly worth a try.

So what do you say? Are you with me?

First Things First

On April, 2015July, 2015 By Peter WatkinsIn 2015Leave a comment

Dear Will:

Ever find yourself going in so many directions at once that you can’t concentrate very long on any one thing? I don’t know about you, but when I get into that sort of synapse-firing frenzy, it’s almost paralyzing. My mind becomes a jumble. At best I’m inefficient with how I use my time; at worst I get nothing done whatsoever.

It wasn’t very many years ago that I was a devotee of the Franklin Planner, a system for organizing one’s day and getting stuff done. I first encountered the Franklin Planner in the mid-‘80s when I served a short, ill-fated stint as Stake Clerk in the Los Angeles Stake. The men in that Stake Presidency were very accomplished and successful, and all three of them swore by the Franklin Planner. As an unaccomplished and unsuccessful 20-something wannabe, I was in no position to judge, but since I was a 20-something wannabe it didn’t stop me. I teased and taunted them about their devotion until, a few years later, I sheepishly got a Franklin Planner of my own.

In those days, when you bought your Franklin Planner starter kit they encouraged you to listen to a couple of cassette tapes designed to train you on how to use the planner and to motivate you to actually use it. Central to the approach was the “Prioritized Daily Task List” in which you were supposed to separate the important from the not-so-important so that you would be less likely to burn time and energy on low priority fluff and more likely to focus on the truly essential. It’s what Stephen R. Covey has referred to as “putting first things first.”

So which things should come first? The answer to that question will vary from day to day, but over the long arc of time, that which matters most will always have more to do with human relationships than with personal achievement or financial success. Our prophet, Thomas S. Monson has said:

I believe that among the greatest lessons we are to learn in this short sojourn upon the earth are lessons that help us distinguish between what is important and what is not. . . .

[And] what is most important almost always involves the people around us. Often we assume that they must know how much we love them. But we should never assume; we should let them know. Wrote William Shakespeare, “They do not love that do not show their love.” We will never regret the kind words spoken or the affection shown. Rather, our regrets will come if such things are omitted from our relationships with those who mean the most to us.

Send that note to the friend you’ve been neglecting; give your child a hug; give your parents a hug; say “I love you” more; always express your thanks. Never let a problem to be solved become more important than a person to be loved. (“Finding Joy in the Journey,” General Conference, October 2008)

It’s an important reminder, especially as I consider the scribbled list before me: so many self-centered to-do’s that there’s hardly room for a person to get my attention. Perhaps it’s time for me to reprioritize.

It’s a speech I have given myself before—and certainly one I will give myself again—but for now, my mind is a little less jumbled. So before I post this letter, I think I’m going to go call my mom.

His Hand Is Stretched Out Still

On March, 2015April, 2019 By Peter WatkinsIn 20151 Comment

Dear Will:

It was near dawn. The men, many of them fishermen by trade, had sailed through the night in an effort to cross the Sea of Galilee. Nevertheless, after many hours, still they had not reached Gennesaret because a powerful wind was working against them. Sleep-deprived and muscle-weary, no doubt they were exhausted by the ordeal, their nerves frazzled as they battled fatigue and fear and frustration. And still the waves rose, the wind blew, and their ship remained far from the distant shore.

If it’s true that it’s always darkest just before the dawn, then perhaps at that early morning hour they had begun to give up hope. Perhaps they felt—with good reason—that they had done all they could and yet all was for naught. Perhaps they felt as if they had been forsaken, left on their own to struggle against the forces of nature, to save their lives if they could or to resign themselves to the inevitable destruction that seemed to loom nearby.

And then, as if enough weren’t already enough, they gazed into the stormy distance and saw some sort of apparition—a phantasm, perhaps—approaching on the waves. It was very frightening—so frightening, we’re told, that they cried aloud.

Somehow, in the midst of the chaos and the panic, at this moment of ultimate desperation, a voice rose above the din. “Be of good cheer,” they heard. “It is I; be not afraid.”

It was a voice they knew. It was the voice of Jesus, their teacher, their mentor, their friend. With renewed hope surging in his breast, one of the fishermen answered back. “Lord,” cried Simon, “if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water.” When Jesus bade him come, Simon threw first one leg, then the other, over the side of the boat and walked upon the water toward his Lord. And still the wind blew. Still the waves climbed and fell.

We do not know how many miraculous steps Simon took that night. We do not know how far he ventured beyond the rail of that storm-tossed ship. But we do know that he walked toward Jesus, and that at some point he began to consider the difficulty of what he had undertaken, and that when he saw the effects of that boisterous wind—as the waves crashed all around him—it was, at last, too much. Giving in to fear, Simon began to sink, and he called out once again: ”Lord, save me.”

“And immediately,” we read, “Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, ‘O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?’ And when they were come into the ship, the wind ceased. Then they that were in the ship came and worshipped him, saying, ‘Of a truth thou art the Son of God’” (Matthew 14:22-33).

Who among us has not felt at some point that his life was like a boat on a storm-tossed sea? Who among us has not felt overwhelmed, pushed to the point of emotional or physical exhaustion? Who hasn’t felt at one time or another that she simply could take no more? Who hasn’t felt to cry out, “Lord, save me”?

Of course, the promise of this story is not that the winds won’t blow. It isn’t that the waves will not rise up against us nor that the journey will be made easy. The promise is that when we move toward Him He will move toward us. The promise is that if we feel ourselves starting to sink, He will reach out His hand and lift us up again.

It is not without effort, mind you. “Take my yoke upon you,” He says (Matthew 11:29). “Draw near unto me and [then] I will draw near unto you,” He promises (D&C 88:63). “Seek ye first the kingdom of God,” He urges, and then, indeed, “all these things shall be added unto you” (Matthew 6:33)

“Come unto me,” says Jesus, “all ye that labour, [all ye that] are heavy laden”—you and you and you and me—all of us—“and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

This brings to mind something I witnessed recently while hiking. A man and woman were climbing a steep trail together. The man was out in front, and after stepping up onto a rock he turned and—in a moment of old-fashioned chivalry—he extended his hand to help the woman up. But the woman would have none of it. In a moment of new-fashioned liberation, perhaps, she bounded on past as if her companion weren’t even there.

That’s right. She totally left him hanging.

I loved it. But as I watched that scene play out, it brought to mind a phrase often repeated by Isaiah in reference to our Lord and Savior: “His hand is stretched out still” (Isaiah 5:25, etc.). As I wandered the hills that day, I began to consider how often the Lord has extended His hand toward me and I have failed to grasp it.

How often have I have faced obstacles and chosen simply to power through them on my own? How often have I chosen to do things my way in contradiction to the inspired guidance of a loving Father? How often have I allowed pride and stubbornness to separate me from the Divine? And yet, no doubt, His hand was stretched out still.

How often do we disregard the commandments or think we know better than the prophets of God? How often do we make ourselves miserable, allowing ourselves to be dragged down to the gulf of misery and endless wo (Helaman 5:12)—and yet His hand is stretched out still?

How often? And yet—no matter how often—we cannot disqualify ourselves from this promise. We cannot put ourselves beyond His reach. In fact, no matter how foolish our choices may have been, no matter how far we may have drifted—He will be waiting there for us, and His hand will be stretched out still.

Even if we have been richly blessed and have chosen nonetheless to walk away, and even if in our wanderings we seem to have wasted our divine inheritance on riotous living, when we come unto ourselves and look, at last, toward Christ, we will see that His hand, as ever, is stretched out still (see Luke 15:11-24).

Elder Jeffrey R. Holland has stated: “However many chances you think you have missed, however many mistakes you feel you have made or talents you think you don’t have, or however far from home and family and God you feel you have traveled, I testify that you have not traveled beyond the reach of divine love. It is not possible for you to sink lower than the infinite light of Christ’s Atonement shines” (“The Laborers in the Vineyard,” Ensign, May 2012).

When Jesus took on a mortal body—when He condescended to become like us—he suffered sicknesses and pains, afflictions and temptations, infirmities of every kind so that He would know, in that moment of despair, how to succor us commensurate with our suffering (Alma 7:11-12). That is, He came to understand and know what it is you feel when you lose your job or when the baby is sick or when you said that awful thing you never, ever should have said. He knows what it’s like when your husband dies or when your son is having a crisis of faith. He knows the ache that comes from feeling unloved or unnoticed, friendless even among the friendly. He knows all about your sleepless worry when the purse is empty and the end of the month is still two weeks away. He knows your disappointments, your frustrations, your hopelessness and your doubts. And above all, He knows the emptiness you feel when you commit that sin—again—that you swore you would never again commit, or when you find yourself bound by addiction or bad habits or spiritual weakness of any kind, weighed down by present-day consequences of bad choices made many years ago.

He descended below them all (D&C 122:8)—suffered them all—that we might not suffer (D&C 19:16). It is for that very reason that He said: “Come unto me,” for that very reason that He promised rest and relief to the heavy laden. It is for that very reason that His hand is stretched out still.

As we welcome in this Easter week, may we reflect on the promise of that outstretched hand—a promise He can keep today because of what He suffered for us nearly 2000 years ago. May we find ourselves, as Simon and Mary and Enos and countless others, calling out to Him in our moments of need. May we show our thanks for His sacrifice by accepting His love and taking His name upon us and keeping His commandments.

And may we always remember what took place on that first Good Friday—the very best Friday of all—when His hands were stretched out across that sacrificial beam. His hands were stretched out then . . . that they might be stretched out now. And to this day, His hands are stretched out still.