Pride Goeth

Heavenly Father is showing me things.
Things about myself.

It is good.

Sometimes it is hard and it hurts, but it is good.

One of the things that I am seeing about myself is that I have always loved to be RIGHT.
I'm willing to work hard and sacrifice and study and find the RIGHT answer or the RIGHT way-- how to give birth, parent, home school, eat, etc.
But so many of my RIGHT discoveries have ended up being shattered by physical limitations, disillusionment with the person who introduced me to the idea, not getting the results I expected, someone else doing it better than me, or someone I love choosing to do it a totally different way and having wonderful results.

I am learning that there is a difference between being right and being righteous.

One is fueled by pride.
The other is fueled by love.

I have been slowly learning this for years, but I still have setbacks.
One temptation for me is to jump into an email discussion to get my opinion out there.
Then I live in turmoil while I wait for the response.  I soar with pleasure at every assenting response that puffs up my ego.  I crash into the "depths of dispair" with every disagreement.  It is no way to exist, and it makes me a fearful, cranky mother.
It is embarassing to admit this, but it is true.  I care way too much about what people think of me and my opinions.  
I have gotten better.  So much better, but I still fumble and falter quite a lot. 
I fumbled this week.
It was silly, and I regretted it the moment I hit send.
The regret brought up other prideful things I've done lately, and I got pretty down on myself.
It was just as we were leaving for the temple on Wednesday.
The tears would leak out under my sunglasses, even though I tried to keep them in.
"Are you okay, mom?"
"Yeah, I'm just feeling bad about something I did wrong."

So I tried the gratitude dare.  I  wanted it to work, but I was feeling really, really low. 
I thought of a few things I was thankful for as I picked up the young men on my route.
They were things I was  truly thankful for, but I couldn't feel it in my heart.

As I pulled onto the freeway, I pulled in behind a large flatbed semi.  It was carrying a big load of poles.  I could only see the ends of the poles.  Shapes.  There were circles of varying sizes, bound together in interesting patterns.  There were squares and rectangles as well.  There was something about the way all of those shapes looked that was so elementary, so pleasing.  I wanted to take a picture of it.
I thanked my Father for shapes.
I felt a little better.

Then we got into town and I was still watching for anything that might awaken real gratitude in my soul.
"From Cumorah's Hill" was playing in the CD player.  It is one of my favorite works.
We turned onto temple drive, and the rocky ridges of squaw peak were before me.
The sun had not yet risen, but rays of it were sneaking through the canyon and lighting up the jagged ridges.
I couldn't see the sun, but I could see the effects of it right there on the mountain behind the temple.
"The sun is coming," I thought.  "That is pleasant."
Then, my soul stirred as I heard the words, "Who will wait for the Savior" come through the speakers in my van.
"The Son is coming."  I thought
Joy.
He is coming!

"Who will rise to meet Him?
Who delights to greet Him?
Who will join with the stars of the morning dancing for joy?
Who will shout Hallelujah on their knees before Him?"

It was moving enough to shift my sorrow into hope.

And the quiet white reverence in His House.
And the whisper of magnificent blessings.
And the angel-faces and soft, age wrinkled hands of the temple workers.

Shifted that hope into love.

Oh, I hope that I can learn for all of my actions to speak not pride, but love.