I Can't Tell You Why

I saw it on a thrift-store shelf – a straight-sided glass vase with a white candle inside it. Nothing remarkable about the vase itself, really, but there was a word, in black vinyl letters, on its side. The word spoke to me. I wanted it to be part of my home; part of my life. I plopped down fifty cents for the vase and took it home.

There was one little cloud in my happy shopping sky – the previous owner of the vase had slightly misjudged the diameter of the vase compared to the candle she had tried to put in it. It was stuck halfway down. I was sure I could get it out, and maybe find another (slightly smaller) candle to replace it. After all, it wasn't the candle I was interested in, but the message on the vase. 

I began to work on the candle as soon as I got home. I tugged at the wick, firmly but carefully. The candle didn't budge. Well, I hadn't expected it to be that easy. I decided to use a little heat. Not much, because I knew that too much heat would ruin the letters on the side, and that wise word was important for me to preserve.

I brought out a blow-dryer, confident that this tool would provide the comfortable warmth that would soften the wax so that I could pull the candle out. But that didn't do it. I put the vase in the microwave, but I could see that was certain danger to the letters. I tried putting it hot water, conscientiously holding on to it so the lettered side stayed dry. Still no progress.

I turned to a slightly more violent tactic on the candle – stabbing it with a knife. (It was just a butter knife, and my 'stabbing' was more like poking.) I was very careful not to crack the glass or nick the letters on the vase.

After some time, a few small pieces of the candle broke off. Encouraged, I kept working at it, cautiously shaving little bits of wax from the candle's edges. It took some time, but at last I had whittled the candle down enough to slide it out.

I was delighted at my success. But I could see that my work was not yet done. The inside of the vase was besmirched with a thin layer of wax. I needed to get rid of that.

It wasn't easy, because my hand barely fit in the vase. but after several rounds of scraping and scrubbing, I managed to clean all the wax off. I meticulously shined the vase with glass cleaner, inside and out – except, of course, where the letters were.

It looked great. I happily put the vase on a shelf where I could see it every day and be reminded of its transformative admonition:

Simplify

Three days later, one of my children bumped the shelf at a run, and the glass vase – and its philosophic recommendation – was shattered.

I bought the vase because I hoped it would be a reminder for me about simplifying my life. And it did that – though it was not in the way I had expected. 

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There's a song – actually, mostly just a line from a song – that has been taking a frequent spin in my head lately:

We make it harder than it has to be – 

and I can't tell you why.¹            

Life is not easy – it's not meant to be. But sometimes we complicate our lives unnecessarily. And when we do, we often pay a price – sometimes higher than we would expect.

Making eye-catching visual aids or cute handouts to use in a lesson can become a crutch – and not always a reliable one. A teacher's time and energy is often better used to study the doctrine and its application. Too much time spent planning and preparing an elaborate Easter dinner might not leave room in our hearts to consider the miraculous totality of the Savior's resurrection. Extravagant Christmas decorations, long handwritten holiday letters, and the quest for the perfect gift can turn a season that should be a treasure into a burden. (And after the holiday, you have to put it all away!) Delaying a visit because you don't have a treat or a gift to take causes missed opportunities to serve and enjoy the company of our friends, neighbors and family. Incessant fretting about getting your family neatly groomed and dressed in time for church can numb your heart to the inconceivably immense act of grace that comes to us through the Sacrament.

That is no bargain – the price is far too high.

  

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Our first three children were born while we lived far from our extended family members, so we did not have visitors when they were blessed in church as babies. We just dressed them, blessed them, then took them home and redressed them.

But Ben was born two months after we moved to a new home, in an area within reasonable driving distance from our parents, grandparents, and siblings. We were happy to invite them all to come to our ward to see our baby receive a name and a blessing, and to come to our home for lunch after the meeting.

The day of Ben's blessing arrived. I got up early to make rolls and soup and then frantically clean up our small home. Wes fed and dressed the older kids, but when it was time to leave for Sacrament Meeting, I wasn't ready. I told him to go on without me and I would be right there.

After a frantic feeding and changing session for both me and the baby, (and some skillful hiding of dirty dishes) we headed off to church. We were late, but I knew there were other babies to be blessed in our ward that morning, so I hoped for the best.

I arrived at the church and was almost at the door to the chapel when the bishop announced that our Ben would be the next to be blessed. Wes saw me and met me at the door. I put our beautiful baby in his arms and he walked to the front of the chapel, where he and his father and my father and other Melchizedek priesthood holders formed a circle, their arms cradling Ben in the center. Wes began to speak, using his priesthood power to give our son, Benjamin Hyrum Spencer, a name and a blessing.

I still stood in the doorway, not wanting to disrupt the meeting. I was very glad that I had made it in time, even though it was very much at the last minute. And the food would be good, I hoped, and the house was clean. From where I stood peeking through the chapel door I could see that my parents and in-laws and some other family members were there. I was tired, but things were working out okay.

When Wes ended the blessing, I walked into the chapel and sat down with him and the rest of my family. Ben began to fuss after a few minutes, so I took him into the mothers' room to feed him. Another woman was there with her baby. We were new in the ward, so I didn't know many people, but I said hello as I sat down.

She looked at me warmly and asked, with hopeful expectation in her voice, “Is this the baby that was blessed today? Benjamin?”

I smiled and nodded at her.

“I'm so glad to meet you here. I was hoping I would get a chance to talk to you today,” she said. “I wanted to tell you that your husband gave the most beautiful blessing.”

I was stunned and ashamed. What did he say? I thought. Why wasn't I listening?

I thanked the woman for her thoughtfulness, and we talked for a few minutes more, but I could not stop thinking about what I had missed – a once-in-a-lifetime moment of grace that I had been too hurried to receive.

Family members assembled at our house after the meeting ended, and everyone was charmed by our beautiful baby.

Baby Ben with his Aunt Leslie

Baby Ben  with his father

Baby Ben with his great-grandmother, Phyllis Spencer

I suppose the house looked good, and the soup and rolls were yummy. I don't remember.

And you know, I don't think anyone else remembers, either.

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It's not always easy to recognize and remove the clutter of excess complication in our lives. And maybe the practice of simplicity seems too small a solution for what's ailing us in our in our homes, in our callings, in our relationships, in our conversation.

But I think it's worth a try.

Consider, in this context, the Savior's fervent invitation: Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light. (Matthew 11:28-30)

For me. this scripture raises a somber thought: If your burden is not light, perhaps it is not the right burden. Maybe it is an extra one you took on for yourself. Can you drop it?

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Some of life's greatest joys are not at all complicated – a beautiful sunset, a baby's toothless grin, a warm bed on a cold night, or the indescribable holiness of feeling the Spirit of God opening your heart and testifying that He is there, and that life is good.


It's all pretty simple.

¹ I Can't Tell You Why, Tmothy B. Schmit, Glenn Frey, and Don Henley, Copyright 1978