Nostalgia

Today, I learned that nostalgia is delicate, but potent. In greek, nostalgia means the pain from an old wound. It's a twinge in your heart, far more powerful than memory alone. It takes us to place where we ache to go again (Madmen).

Today, I felt nostalgic. I felt the twinges of old wounds opened by the recall of unsaid words, lost opportunities, and regretted experiences. I began to wonder if I ever would be given a second chance to confront actualities of the memories that stir my feelings of nostalgia.

For a while, I let go of my hope for the future. I started to let myself believe that God only gives us one chance to choose happiness. That thought felt so depressing. But then something happened.

I was driving in the car this afternoon with my cousin, who is currently troubled about which university to attend in the fall. As we weaved through the blocks south of BYU campus, we chatted for a little while about the pros and cons of uprooting and moving to Provo. We discussed the benefits of a social life away from home, the blessings of attending a university that combines religion with education, and the perks of living on your own. Our conversation was all good and thorough, but then my cousin asked me the following questions: "Katie, am I going to be able to make it up here? What is going to happen to me?"

My first response was simple. I told my cousin that it wasn't for me to decide. Whether or not someone has a good time at BYU depends solely upon that person's desire to invest in their experience. I told my cousin that you have to be willing to get to know people, to be patient as you adjust to the curriculum of the university, and to be honest as you reassess your ability to be independent from the comforts of home.

But after my cousin and I parted ways for the evening, I began to reflect on the questions in more depth. "Am I going to make it up here? What is going to happen?" I couldn't help but ask myself, "what has helped me 'make it' in Provo? What has happened to me since I've been here? What have I learned in that past two years that has made this experience worth the sacrifice and learning, the pain and joy?"

I remember when I first moved up to Provo. I was exactly like my cousin: worried, and basically terrified. I feared that my roommates would be dramatic and uncaring; that my classes would be too hard for my capabilities; and that I would hate BYU. I also fretted over what would happen to my social life. Would I ever make any friends? Would I ever be happy in Provo?

Fortunately, through time and experience, God teaches me that fear is not a reliable source for decision making. Three weeks after I moved into my apartment, I remember walking down the steps near the RB. It was a warm September evening, and I decided to take a moment to look back at the mountains and think. It was in that moment, of silence and tranquility when  peace finally came. All the months of anguish that had polluted my life for months prior to the move seemed to vanish. Since that day, I have kept that feeling of peace at the center of my heart so that when I feel overwhelmed or uncertain about my future, I can remember God's approval of my being here at this time, in this place. Not once have I regretted my decision to leave Mesa and settle in Provo. Not when school was challenging, not when my callings felt overwhelming, not when work seemed impossible, and not even when dating made me anxious beyond relief. There have certainly been many late nights when I looked up at the sky and asked  God why certain things have happened: "Why didn't that relationship work out? Was it because I moved? Why is this application so difficult? Is it because it would have been easier back home? Why do I feel so alone? So afraid? So uncertain?" Time and time again, that small stroke of peace I felt on that calm September eve calms my restlessness.

If my cousin were to ask me the aforementioned questions again, I would add the following thought to my answer. "[Cousin], do not worry! Things always work out. When we are living righteously and sincerely trying to come unto Christ by gradually abandoning the natural man within us and replacing our fearful behaviors with faith driven activity, the Holy Ghost will not abandon you. Chances are, you will need to be patient as you transition to this new life. But if you desire it, God and Jesus Christ will reveal to you how they have planned, prepared and guaranteed your victory. So be believing and endure the hard times well," (Lessons Learned From Liberty Jail).

I believe that I have "made it" in Provo, Utah, these past two years because I wanted to. I needed to. I had to. There have been very memorable moments since August of 2008 when I had to release the controlling grip I had on my life, and actively wait in faith as I let the Lord guide my life in the direction He wanted me to follow. Letting go of that control has never been easy. In fact, those experience have tempted me with a lot of anxiety problems and feelings of frustration. But I'm beginning to trust the plans I made for myself aren't nearly as incredible as God's plans for me. I am grateful for the times when Heavenly Father allows me to make decisions, and  I'm even more grateful when He kindly lets me know that there was a better choice to be made.

And that's where the nostalgia comes in. I'm often tempted to look  back at my life think of only the wrong choices I've made. And that's when I start to worry about all the opportunities I never felt or experienced. But I believe, with conviction, that I can allow Christ's love for me to soften those "twinges" and heal the "old wounds" that cause me to cringe at memories past. True, nostalgia is delicate, but potent. And yes, it does feel like pain from old wounds. But the pain and fear and loss of hope do not have to burden my heart forever. There will be a day when I no longer yearn to go back and fix my mistakes, say something I never said, or change a situation that didn't unfold like I expected. The day will come when I won't be haunted by regret and nostalgia.

I am grateful that today, I can look back at the past two years (actually, the past 21 years) and feel a peaceful healing override my twinge of regret associated with nostalgia.  I am also grateful for the feeling of nostalgia. It helps me see how I've progressed and what I can become. With that said, I no longer wish to ache for what I fear I've lost, nor do I yearn to live in the past. As Elder Holland once proclaimed, "the past is to be remembered but not lived in. We look back to claim the embers from glowing experiences, but not the ashes. And when we have learned what we needed to learn and have brought with us the best that we have experienced, then we look ahead," (Remember Lot's Wife).

We cannot let nostalgia trump faith. Let us instead hope for what is in store.



Sources
1. Madmen Episode 1, nostalgia, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tu-TO4WH2uo&feature=related
2. Holland, Jeffrey R. "Lessons Learned from Liberty Jail"
3. Holland, Jeffrey R. "Remember Lot's Wife"