The Vast Toolbox of Education

I was so excited to write another blog post, because I was going to go all nerdy and talk about my favorite book series, the Chronicles of Narnia… But it just wasn’t flowing. (Maybe it was a sign.)

Let me tell you about something a little more relevant in my life.

So, in case you don’t remember my last post, I just graduated from college in December with a violin performance degree, and a couple months ago was gearing up for a graduate school audition. I did the audition! And I felt great about it! But apparently, the committee hearing me didn’t think so. Or, I should rephrase that, since I’ve visited with them about what was lacking and how I can improve—apparently, I don’t quite fit the specific criteria for the program. And it’s a small program. (Teeny tiny.) So, I wasn’t accepted.

(Disclaimer—I’m actually not that upset. I’m disappointed, sure. But not shocked. And I’m not mad at all. I just really really wanted to use that meme when I started typing “apparently” a bunch…)

So. Now what? I didn’t apply to any other programs, because (surprise!) I got engaged and didn’t want to live in a totally different place than my soon-to-be husband. I told myself I’d just keep my job and try to get some students to teach, but deep down I was still feeling unresolved. Unfulfilled. Like, aren’t I supposed to be furthering my education?? I thought for sure I needed a graduate degree. Both of my parents have at least two graduate degrees each. I’ve always had this vision for myself of how my education and professional life would play out.

Now let’s jump to a totally unrelated topic.

This morning, I was studying scriptures with my fiancé. We were reading in the first book of Nephi in the Book of Mormon about the story of Nephi building the ship that his family used to sail to the promised land. The story, for those who may be unfamiliar with it or who need a refresher, goes like this.

Nephi goes up into a mountain and prays to God, and God gives him the commandment to build a ship. Nephi, who is one faithful dude, doesn’t complain like his brothers probably would have. He doesn’t doubt. Instead, he says this: “Lord, whither shall I go that I may find ore to molten, that I may make tools to construct the ship after the manner which thou hast shown unto me?” (1 Nephi 17:9)

He doesn’t expect the Lord to build the ship for him, he doesn’t ask for tools, he doesn’t even ask for the materials for the tools! He asks for direction. Once he receives instructions on where to find the ore to make the tools, he proceeds to make his own bellows out of “the skins of beasts”. He builds a fire, uses the homemade bellows to melt the ore, then makes tools to build the ship from that molten ore. And THEN he starts to build.

That really impressed me. Do you think God could have shown Nephi a place where an already-built ship was sitting in the harbor, ready to board? Definitely. Could He have handed Nephi the perfectly-constructed tools at least? Absolutely. But the Lord knew Nephi wouldn’t learn and grow if he had things just handed to him. So He helped Nephi construct the tools, gave him guidance and direction, and helped him accomplish the commandment He gave.

Now back to my life. I had a phone conversation with my parents this afternoon, during which I updated them on the grad school situation and shared with them my feelings about it. And I got some pretty wonderful advice from my dad (and very few dad jokes or puns with it, which is rare). He and my mom advised me to consider my options and find out what I could about each, and then he told me that it’s not the end of the world if I don’t get a master’s degree in violin. I could get a graduate degree in law! Or business! Or I could expand my knowledge and training in other ways. The point he made was that there are so many opportunities for education in life, I shouldn’t feel like I’m only good enough or accomplished enough if I do one certain thing.

This piece of advice gave me hope. Can you imagine if Nephi had only melted enough ore to make one hammer? And how difficult that would have made it to build an entire ship? God provided the raw materials and instructions to the young Nephi, and Nephi (wisely) used those gifts to make a variety of tools.

Likewise, we’ve been commanded to make education a big part of our lives. “Seek ye diligently and teach one another words of wisdom; yea, seek ye out of the best books words of wisdom; seek learning, even by study and also by faith” (D&C 88:118). “Study and learn, and become acquainted with all good books, and with languages, tongues, and people” (D&C 90:15). “It is my will that you should… obtain a knowledge of history, and of countries, and of kingdoms, of laws of God and man, and all this for the salvation of Zion” (D&C 93:53). “A wise man will hear, and will increase learning” (Proverbs 1:5). But Heavenly Father does not leave us to fend for ourselves—He has given each of us talents, direction, and spiritual gifts and has promised that as we cultivate them and use them to obtain education, we will be blessed.

Perhaps navigating life is like building a ship; if so, we are fortunate to have education as our tools. But we need not limit ourselves to just a hammer, or just a college degree! That’s a pretty narrow way of thinking. Learning is a life-long adventure, and we would do well to use the gifts our Father has given us to expand our knowledge and skills. And let’s be clear—even though it would be really nice to have facts and information somehow planted in our brains, or to have a fancy piece of paper handed to us titled “master’s degree”, God doesn’t work that way. We have to put in the effort in order to gain anything and to grow.

So. Will I move forward with my plan to get a degree beyond my bachelor’s? Possibly. But I could also apply myself in the workplace, or get a degree in business and start up that bakery I’ve only ever dreamed about, or study writing and literature and (hey, who knows) get deeper into this blog-writing thing. Maybe I’ll read up on cooking styles and techniques and get fancy in the kitchen. Maybe I’ll learn more about musicianship by teaching. I suppose I could invest in a rocking chair and take up crocheting.

But one thing is certain—I will not mope around and think that my future educational opportunities are restricted. I will apply myself in whatever situation I find myself in. And I will look to Jesus Christ, who gives me strength and the beautiful hope that things only continue to get better and better if I’m focusing on Him.

Vapor Trails

One week into my LDS mission, I found myself tramping down a frozen street in Antwerp, Belgium, trying to keep my feet warm and wondering if I could actually do this. Each day, we wandered through the maze of Antwerp's ancient streets, in and out of neighborhoods filled with refugees and illegal immigrants, the snobbish rich and the desperately poor. We walked through the sleet and ice and snow. No one wanted to talk with a soaked American missionary girl who couldn't speak a word of Flemish.

I'd expected rejection, of course, but I hadn't expected to be half-frozen or to be so completely out of my element with the language. I'd learned a bit of Dutch in the missionary training center back home, but the Flemish dialect sounded completely foreign to me, and it was hard to concentrate on the words when my coat was soaked through with icy water. Besides, everyone we talked to seemed to speak some other language anyway—Arabic or French or Mandarin or Spanish. They all seemed angry or sad, although I couldn't be sure. I didn't understand what they were saying.

My companion was about half a block ahead of me, trying to figure out the bus schedule so that we could get to an appointment with a member of our church. I felt bone-tired and scared to death. I wasn't thinking about going home, but over and over, I heard the timid voice inside my head saying, "You can't do this for a year and a half. You can't you can't you can't."

I looked up in desperation, praying that the blasted snow would let up for a moment. As I did, my eye caught a patch of color—a break in the clouds and a reminder that the sky still existed, and it was beautiful, bright, happy blue.

It was a miracle. The sun! I called out to my companion, but she wasn't listening. I watched as I walked, marveling. There are places in the world where they see blue sky all day long! Places like Honolulu, South Africa. Why hadn't I been assigned to live there!? There's no snow in Honolulu. Missionaries don't freeze to death in South Africa.

As my hungry eyes snatched at the blue, a single airplane passed overhead and crossed my miraculous patch of sky. Behind it, a long vapor trail followed its progress. The plane disappeared behind the clouds, but the vapor trail remained, cutting in half my sky.

Photo by Richard Ashley

Revelation comes like the falling snow, sometimes: soft, gradual, still. Other times it comes like a sudden glimpse of a blue sky and a wandering vapor trail, sudden and absolute. I understood something so clearly in that moment. Watching that vapor trail, I realized that I had 18 months to make my mark before I would be the one in an airplane, making a vapor trail above a country that I already loved in spite of its hard chill. 18 months to live with deliberation and change lives, if I could. "18 months," said the timid inside-my-head voice, "to not freeze to death." But I shrugged it away. I knew what I had to do. And I would do it. Every day would count, every conversation would matter.

Belgium, I decided, would not kill me! I would love it in spite of itself! I would love it to submission! Belgium would regret the day it made war with me!

And with that, I met my companion, smiled, and got to work—frozen toes and all.

Funny what a little old vapor trail can do for you. From that moment on, the glimpse of an airplane in the air or a vapor trail raking the sky was a reminder. Live. Do it right. Work harder. Every time I spotted one, I felt my courage rise and my determination solidify.

Eventually, vapor trails came to mean something else to me. They still motivated me, but they were a reminder of the Person who, in my mind, had sent my first vapor trail at the moment when I would understand—and need—it most. They came to mean little loves notes from the God I love and was trying to serve. They became tender, personal—an intentional sign between my God and me. "Heavenly Father loves you," said each vapor trail, "so work hard and give Him everything you can."

God picked the right sign. Belgium (and the Netherlands, where I would move eventually, abandon my Flemish, and begin to relearn Dutch) rests just below the aerial crossroads of nearly every major airport in Europe. Some days, the sky was literally criss-crossed with vapor trails, seven or eight of them gleaming in the enormous northern sky. Have you ever been showered with affection? Been absolutely secure in someone's love? Those were moments of confidence and joy for me, those impossibly many vapor trails. I loved them.

Photo by Eleleven

A year and a half later, I sat on an airplane, parked on the dark, pre-dawn runway, and cried and cried. Somehow, just as that first vapor trail had predicted, I had fallen in love with Belgium and with Holland. I'd worked hard—not perfectly, but hard—and somehow my heart had seeped into the lowlands, the bicycles and tulips, the people and the place. How could I leave if my heart wasn't with me anymore? The Belgians and the Dutch, they'd stolen it away.

I looked through the window and gasped. That glorious Dutch sun had risen to greet the cold spring day, and the sun lit up vapor trails—layers and layers of them. Thirty vapor trails at least, sharing the sky and climbing toward eternity. I'd never seen so many. I'd never felt so loved. The woman next to me patted my hand. She probably thought that I was on my way to a funeral, the way I was sobbing. She couldn't know that I was crying because I was happier than I'd ever been.



Vapor trails have become a personal miracle. There's one outside my window now, and when I see one, I know that God loves me, likes me, wants me home. It seems like such a silly thing, to take so much meaning from a stripe of water in the sky, but if it helps me remember my heavenly home, what does it matter?



Heavenly Father reminds you every day of how much you're adored, taken care of, and loved. Find your vapor trail.

I promise that its there.