Another in a seemingly eternal string of ice-cold wintry days. The kind that require me to start my van a good ten minutes before I need to leave. But on a harried and forgetful morning, I inadvertently forgot about that task and realized I had an opaque windshield to contend with as I rushed to leave.
As I plopped my bags in the passenger seat and started the engine, I willed the glass to clear quickly. A defroster won’t work until there’s heat, and warmth was nowhere to be found on this arctic morning. Time was my only hope. And I had precious little if I was going to be on time. So typical.
But as I started down our rocky potholed dirt road, I noticed the picture it created on my windshield was actually quite pretty. Although it was slightly tricky to see the road as a million tiny frost particles peppered the glass. But I continued to drive on, assured that I could see enough.
I didn’t consciously watch it happen, but of course I did. Before long, the defroster had done its job and the windshield was nearly clear. The frost designs had dissipated and I could easily out to the road that only minutes before had been obstructed and foggy to me.
I couldn’t help but think how often this has happened in my life. So often it feels like the road ahead is all but hidden from view. Most days I'm ok. I have a general idea of how to proceed, I’m familiar with the area, I mostly just keep moving forward the best I can. In the meantime, as I’m waiting for the warmth from my defroster to clear things up, I trust my instinct and my vehicle and I try to focus on the small eyehole of the windshield I can see through. Not the best of driving conditions, especially when the road is icy and the lanes are indistinguishable from the shoulder, I’ll admit it’s a little disconcerting. But this is a two-lane 60 mph road; I can’t pull over and wait for better weather and I can’t even turn around and start over later. I have to just trust myself and carry on.
I’ve thought how similar this is to the many uncertain journeys I’ve been forced to make in life. Regardless of how obscured my sight-line has been or how uncomfortable I’ve felt about proceeding, there’s not really another viable option. But over time, right before my eyes, without my noticing how or when it happened, eventually I’m able to make sense of some of the roads I’ve been on: small country lanes, major highways, vats of spaghetti-freeways and exchanges.
We’ve all had to drive in less-than ideal conditions, but scarier than a snowy, icy commute is having to make decisions or make sense of a situation without much to go on. Choosing a spouse, a city to live in, a career, even a fall schedule. Where to volunteer and put your extra time, whether to buy the house that doesn’t make a lick of sense, to have children when you feel like you’re still one yourself.
I think about the family I was born into. Early in my life I couldn’t understand our dynamics and the purpose for our being in the same boat; but the older I get, the more I see how perfectly we fit together, how much we learn from and teach one another, how this alignment has provided us so many opportunities for growth and empathy and compassion.
I think of the major decisions Todd’s had to make with his work. Early on we had to decide whether to buy into the business, to take the risk of becoming part-owner, when we still had so much debt from school loans; it seemed crazy to take on more. But he felt peaceful about it despite being a little unsure how it would all work out. This past year he was faced with selling part of his portion. So many questions and uncertainties all over again. Yet in both cases he trusted and proceeded.
I think back to getting married at 22. About what I chose as a major. About having kids so close together. About not having more. About moving to Illinois and to Montana. In nearly all these cases I’m still waiting for the defrost. I’m still not clear on why a mission wasn’t right for me. I have no idea what possessed me to choose the major I did. I’m not sure if we made the right decision about not having more kids. I’m in the dark as to why we’re here in Montana and what my specific purpose is even now. Although I’m beginning to feel a little warmth wafting over the dash.
I just think we sometimes we expect a completely clear windshield—a confirmation that the path we’re on will work out for us—before we move on. And yet most starts are a little less than straightforward, the view is usually a bit hazy. We may have a vague idea of where we want to go or be or do, but evidence that we’re making the right choice doesn’t usually come until we’ve committed to our choice and lived with it—driven—for awhile.
A leader sought counsel from a trusted friend who wisely responded with this counsel, “The trouble with you is you want to see the end from the beginning. I replied that I would like to see at least a step or two ahead. Then came the lesson of a lifetime: You must learn to walk to the edge of the light, and then a few steps into the darkness; then the light will appear and show the way before you. Then he quoted these 18 words from [scripture]: Dispute not because ye see not, for ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith” (Ether 12:6).*
I think this is even more difficult to accept when we’ve prayed over a decision, a course we’re grappling with, a fork in the road. We expect—and absolutely want—God to confirm for us that we’ve chosen correctly. But so often He allows us—and yes, expects us—to carry on, assuring us He will help us know one way or the other. Eventually.
“What do you do when you have prepared carefully, have prayed fervently, waited a reasonable time for a response, and still do not feel an answer? You may want to express thanks when that occurs, for it is an evidence of [Heavenly Father’s] trust. When you are living worthily and your choice is consistent with the Savior’s teachings and you need to act, proceed with trust. As you are sensitive to the promptings of the Spirit, one of two things will certainly occur at the appropriate time: either the stupor of thought will come, indicating an improper choice, or the peace or the burning in the bosom will be felt, confirming that your choice was correct. When you are living righteously and are acting with trust, God will not let you proceed too far without a warning impression if you have made the wrong decision” (Richard G. Scott).*
Sometimes the windshield clears almost immediately, like you have some kind of turbo defroster working for you. As soon as you accept a marriage proposal you feel a wash of warmth sweep over you, you just know this is right. In other cases that confirmation may not come till years and even decades later. Maybe moving to a new town you immediately meet someone you feel you’ve known forever, a major tragedy strikes and you know you were meant to be in her life just for this. In other cases, after twenty years, you’re still not sure why you felt to move here. I remember wondering that for 15 years since we'd been here. But one day just sitting in a church class, all of a sudden I felt the words, “You’re right where you’re supposed to be.” What an unsolicited confirmation, one I’d given up seeking. I still don’t know why, frost is still clouding my view, but I trust one day I may know why; for now it's enough to keep me going, like my little peep-hole in my windshield.
I have various friends who thought they were done having kids who ended up with a feeling to have another, others who simply got pregnant unexpectedly, some who couldn’t have more kids for quite awhile who ended up pregnant again. I have two friends who each told me they’ve come to understand that their sons were born to them to help them through trying times in their later lives, one who lost a husband to death and another through divorce. Their older sons were in a position to comfort and aid their mothers during those times. These women didn’t understand the circumstances of their sons’ births, the timing of it all, until these events unfolded many, many years later. Interesting.
I’m like you and in so many instances I see the beautiful crystalized glass particles as a hinderance, an obstacle, on my way there. I’m anxious and impatient for them to melt and dissipate allowing me to turn on the windshield wipers and clear my view once and for all so I can proceed with my plans. But what if we humbled ourselves, used patience and trusted that we’ll be able to see soon enough? What if, in the meantime, we appreciated the kaleidoscope of tiny pieces of art in front of us? What if we just enjoyed our friendships and family ties and children without having to understand the why of it all? What if we just choose a major we’re drawn to, that we feel passionate about, and while praying to know if it’s right for us, just dive in and appreciate learning new things? What if we create for the pleasure’s sake without worrying about why we feel to write poetry or music or make quilts or houses? What if we just accepted the discomfort of the present? And trusted that somehow--little by little--the way will be shown us, that we will gradually begin to see the road ahead of us a little better, that we will have a bigger perspective than we do with our current skewed vision? In time.
The defroster takes time. Understanding why takes time. Seeing the path in its entirety takes time. Seeing God’s hand in our lives takes time. But in the meantime, we can choose to enjoy the beautiful patterns in front of us instead of impatiently willing the clouds to part so we can see what’s happening. It's just slow, we don't even really notice. But one by one, the bits of obscurity fade away and eventually we notice how clearly we can see. But for now, what’s really going on is nothing we need to worry about. We can proceed (with care) and with faith. God’s got it. He knows. He sees the road. And I can trust both Him and myself, that He will be with me until the view clears and I can see on my own.
*Move Forward in Faith, Ensign, August 2013
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