One Way to Read It

At one point in my life, when I was a teenager, I did not take very good care of my things, and my parents did not have the money nor the desire to buy me new things. For this reason my clothes were very ragged and old. One summer, I was invited to a birthday party, and I did not go, because I was so ashamed of my clothes. I was ashamed to be seen by my friends. In life we sometimes get out of our pajamas and dress for success. Looking good feels good. But I realized that being ashamed of our clothing might be a good attitude to have. We could use the money we spend on fashion for something better. What will be really important is the clothing we wear on the last day. Will we be ashamed at our garments? Not unless it is the unanswered prayers of beggars that stain them. Our clothes need be washed white in the blood of the Lamb. That is what is most important.

My brother's wife gave birth to her first baby. I am an uncle of a baby so beautiful, and yet so similar in features to my gnarly-looking brother. She carried him for nine months, then her water broke on Super Tuesday. It was eight in the morning and the first thing she said was "We have to vote." My brother laughed and took her to the hospital. He then went to cast his vote for Barack Obama. He labored for over twelve hours to bring that boy into the world. He's a little thing. But he's got big hands, and big feet. Big for a baby. He curls up into the size of a football, and means more to us than winning the Super Bowl. He is helpless, he is wonderful. She will nurse him and coo him to bed for months. They will change countless diapers and feed him spoonful by spoonful, until he grows strong enough to feed himself. They will cheer and laugh when he struggles to take his first steps. They will teach him everything they know, and he will ask questions ...

My cousins waited for five hours to see his body. The line of people shuffled along a city street for a dozen blocks, coming to pay their respects. Lauren said he was so short. "His coffin was this big." She said, stretching her hands out. "And he wasn't wearing his glasses." A little old man, dead, his body wrapped in the robes of the holy priesthood. He was the High Priest of the church of Jesus Christ. He was the mouthpiece of God on earth. He was funny. He was gone. Thousands came to pay their respects. Others to catch a last, or perhaps a first, glimpse of a man who had inspired them, and taught them the words of Christ. But he wasn't there. He had left to go join his dear missed wife who had died a few years ago. Those many people saw only a body, which formerly housed the spirit of a great man. The body was short, having never grown tall, and shrunken by the years. It was wrinkled, with creases from the many laughs upon its cheeks, and cr...