When I was 7, my dad talked with me about preparing for baptism. I remember him asking what I wanted to do so I could feel ready to decide to be baptized. I don’t remember the exact conversation, but I asked him to help me read the Book of Mormon. I was probably just wanting more time with Dad, since he was busy with teaching and church callings and writing and time with mom and 6 kids, so one to one time with him was rare. He said yes, and promised to make it work. 

No matter how late it was when he got home, even if all my siblings were in bed, I would join him in the living room with my own copy of the Book of Mormon(the one with the blue cover), and he would patiently help me read. Slowly, words that had been unfamiliar became familiar. This was much more interesting than the boring primers I was reading in school. When I got to an especially long or unusual word, Dad would help me learn to read it, and then answer any questions I had about what it meant. This is when I learned how valuable it was to ask questions, and have discussions about them. Any question I had about what a verse meant usually led to Dad asking me a question. Sometimes, inherent meaning or truth was not clear in a verse. I can appreciate when Dad trusted me to take a glimpse at complexity. Many years later, I realized it was my first experience with dissonance, as much as a child can experience dissonance. I am grateful I was able to have that happen in a place of trust and support. It prepared me for a lifelong practice of seeing and sitting with dissonance, and taking on complexity. 

I have been thinking of one of those early moments. 

I was reading in 1 Nephi 11:16 and Dad helped me with a long, unfamiliar word. Condescension.

Knowest thou the condescension of God?

“What does that mean?”

“It means to come down to be with. God comes to earth to be with us. In this verse it is talking about Jesus being born and living here with us.”

“So Jesus is God? I thought he was the son of God.”

“What do you think it might mean – Jesus being born is God being with us?”

“Is God always with us? Or only when Jesus was here?”

“Do you think God is always with us? I like to think that.”

“Yes, but this is only talking about Jesus.”

“Maybe there are more ways to see it.”

“Okay. More ways. More ways to see it.”

The next verse had words I already knew how to read.

“I know that he loveth his children; nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things. But why does he need to know all things? If he knows God loves us, what are all the other things?”

“Do you like to know answers to all your questions?”

“Yes. I like having answers.”

“Yes. I like having answers, too. Sometimes, I am trying so hard to figure out answers, it is hard for me to see how much God loves everyone.”

“What does that mean?”

“Maybe it means that God loves you, that God loves everyone, whether we know the answers or not.”

I remember feeling a bit of a struggle, trying to reconcile that. 

The struggle is still there. But I don’t try so much to reconcile the complexity. I try to be with it. 

God coming to be with us. Jesus is born to Mary. God with us. God loveth Their children. I don’t have the answers. I don’t know all things. What do I need to know? Are there more ways to see it?

A few years ago, Mike and I went to Guatemala on a service trip for Bountiful Children’s Foundation. They focus on providing nutrition to children age 5 and under, and for nursing mothers. It is completely volunteer run, by members of local LDS congregations who work with regional coordinators. About half of the children and mothers are not LDS, so the benefits make a difference to all, regardless of membership. We were there to help with assessing progress by weighing and measuring children, and distributing the nutrition powder. Most of our time there was in small villages high in the mountains. In many of these villages, the largest and most stable building was usually the LDS church house. The local leaders made these available to us for gathering with those receiving the nutrition. 

In one village, our small van could not make it up the road to the top of the mountain. Workers were there repairing the cobbles on the steep road, but it was not yet passable. We got out and began to unload the nutrition powder to carry up to the church house at the top. The workers quickly ran over and took the large bags from us, then ran up to the top with them. Chris, another volunteer who was also our translator, explained that these workers had looked forward to us coming. Many of them had children in the program. I noticed a number of women who were climbing up the road with small children strapped to their backs. Chris knew some of them, since he had served a mission in this area a few years before. He introduced us to them. 

I especially remember one woman. I felt I was in the presence of such strength, and peace, and dignity, and incredibly fierce love. She reminded me of the Michelangelo Madonna statue in Bruges, where the look on Mary’s face is strong and wise beyond her years as she looks at her small Christ child, who is about to step away from her into the world beyond her protection. The child this Guatemalan mother was carrying on her back looked especially small, and I learned this little 14 month daughter had been born without legs. When we had set up the scales and measuring tables in the church building, this woman carefully handed me her daughter so I could weigh her. As I worked to carry out this delicate task, I could hear multiple voices whispering to me, “This is God. God with us. She is God. Her baby is God. God is here. A baby is born. God with us.”

I responded, “God, I know you love your children. But I don’t know what this means. This divine mother, this woman with strength and peace I can’t imagine. And her daughter with no legs, living in a mountain village, with steep dirt roads. What is the meaning of this?”

I finished with my task, and held the child close to me. I did not have the language, but her mother seemed to understand my desire to hold her a little longer, and she nodded to me. I thought to give her a blessing, and I moved one hand to cradle her head as I listened for the words to pray. What could I pray for? How could I comprehend anything about her life ahead? How arrogant of me to think I had anything to offer her. I just held her, and heard myself whisper, “You are loved, you are loved, you are loved.”

Then the multiple voices whispered, “She is you. She is you. You are loved. There are no other answers. You are loved. All are loved.”

As I gave this child back to her mother, I let go, for a moment, of knowing the meaning of all things. The only answer I could be with, for a moment, is all are loved. The mother looked at me with complete calm, unsurprised that my face was wet with tears.

The condescension of God. They come as a baby, born new into the world, inviting all things that bring life. They come as a mother, carrying her daughter when her daughter lacks legs, letting a woman, who lacks so much, hold this daughter, and this woman is blessed with their love. 

I think of that moment where Enos wanted answers so desperately, he spent all night pleading in the wilderness. When the answer came, it was an expansive view of love without end. Like him, I can only wonder, “Lord, how is it done?”

If I spent all eternity looking for the answers, the meaning of all things, could I ever know anything more powerful, more terrifying, more heartbreaking, more life giving, than God loveth Their children? Legs or not. Wealth, title, fame, skill, privilege, influence, name, strength, or not. God loveth Their children. Always.

God with us, please help me be with this place of love, beyond knowing.