People and Paring Knives

In the old radio show “Fibber McGee and Molly”, Fibber tended to fly off the handle without having a clear understanding of the particulars of the situation. At the end of one episode, his long-suffering wife, Molly, remarks, “You know, dearie, people and paring knives that lose their temper are pretty dull to have around.”

The word “temper” has more than one meaning, and I found several interesting definitions on the Web:
*anneal: bring to a desired consistency, texture, or hardness by a process of gradually heating and cooling; "temper glass"
*harden by reheating and cooling in oil; "temper steel"
*pique: a sudden outburst of anger; "his temper sparked like damp firewood"
*adjust the pitch (of pianos)
*a characteristic (habitual or relatively temporary) state of feeling; "whether he praised or cursed me depended on his temper at the time"; "he was in a bad humor"
*make more temperate, acceptable, or suitable by adding something else; moderate; "she tempered her criticism"
*a disposition to exhibit uncontrolled anger; "his temper was well known to all his employees"
*chasten: restrain
*the elasticity and hardness of a metal object; its ability to absorb considerable energy before cracking
(wordnetweb.princeton.edu/perl/webwn)

The definitions relating to metal and glass refer to processes that make these materials more useful, by making them stronger and less subject to breakage. There was a type of tempered steel sword, made in Toledo, Spain during the Renaissance, that could be bent almost double without breaking. Tempered glass is much stronger than regular rolled glass, and when it does break, it falls into many small, round pieces that are not as hazardous as the long, sharp shards of regular broken glass.

People can be tempered as well. The challenges we face in our daily lives can strengthen us, and the process of meeting, overcoming, and then moving past challenges helps us to deal with the next stressor. This process of “heating” and “cooling” is necessary for us to mature. The first time steel is heated, it becomes brittle, and needs the process of gradual heating and cooling, over and over, in order to produce a good temper. But a rapid, high and prolonged heating will destroy the temper it had received, and will leave the steel weaker than it was before the tempering process was begun. People react much like steel to the tempering process. When we “blow our top” and “lose our temper”, it makes us weaker, less able to deal with stress, and makes it harder to regain our equilibrium. A person becomes brittle, easily broken, and liable to fly into anger at the least provocation, or at no real provocation at all. It is only by controlling how we react to the unexpected around us that we learn to “keep our temper”.

Testimony, or How I Found Something I Didn't Know I Had Lost. I had been raised a nominal Lutheran. I say that because, while my parents wanted me to have a knowledge and belief in God, they didn't feel that any one church was particularly better at that than another. As long as the churches we went to taught about Christ in a traditional way, that was sufficient. Their main criterium for choosing a church to attend was the size and quality of the choir. Mom and Dad were both choral singers, and for them, being able to sing in a good choir outweighed any other aspect of church attendance. Mom had been raised in the Catholic Church, but had not remained a practicing member. Dad had been raised in the Lutheran Church, and still felt strong ties to it. I went where they went, and had the opportunity to sing in the junior choirs of each congregation. After one move, Dad found the Lutheran church had only a small choir, so we went the the Episcopalian church down the street, which had a much larger and finer-sounding choir. Eventually, we moved and started going to the Lutheran church again. As I became a teenager, I started questioning the beliefs and practices of the Lutherans and Episcopalians. I had a feeling that there was something missing, some vital piece of information I hadn't received in Sunday School lessons or sermons by the pastor. If my spirit was eternal, where was it before I was born, and where would it go after I died? Was the devil as real as God? If God is all one person, was Jesus praying to himself, calling himself Father and telling others to call on him as the Father when they prayed as He said in the scriptures? Why was there an obvious differentiation between Jesus, His Father, and the Spirit at Jesus' baptism? The Father actually spoke, telling people to listen to His Son. And most important to me, what happened to Jesus' body after he ascended into Heaven? He obviously had one after He was resurrected; there was no mention of His leaving it behind when He rose into Heaven in front of the apostles. They didn't rebury it, and the angel said that Christ would return in the same way they saw Him leave. That said to me that He still had His body. He had said that “he who has seen me has seen the Father.” Jesus had a body then, so that meant that the Father also had one. How could they possibly be one person? No one could answer that to my satisfaction. The Trinity made no sense at all; an incomprehensible three-beings-in-one with no body, no “passions” or emotions, no feelings. How could I pray to an amorphous cloud somewhere out in space? How could an unfeeling, unemotional, unknowable force love me? Jesus kept saying that he had a Father, and that the person who was his Father was our Father too. My mortal father was right there in front of me, a person who loved me and saw to my needs. If God was my Eternal Father, it only made sense to me that He would be a real Person, with real feelings, emotions and understandable actions. The Lutheran and Episcopalian pastors couldn't answer my questions, but deflected my questions with “It's God's mystery, and "We can't explain that to you.” There were many other questions, none of which could I get answers for. I had been taught by my Dad to think logically, to ask questions, to seek for answers that made sense. So I left the Lutheran church and started looking for a God that made sense. The standard Christian Trinity had already proved problematic for me. I looked elsewhere for answers. I read omnivorously, and spent quite a long time going through every religion's holy books, trying to find one that made sense. Most seemed to have similar threads of teachings—faith in a higher power, the Golden Rule of doing good things to others so they'll do good things to you, prayer as a means to access power for good. But none of them could answer the questions I needed answered. Floating around as a spirit throughout eternity wasn't it, nor was reincarnation, nirvana, being absorbed into some 'cosmic consciousness' or simple dissolution of the self and oblivion. I gave up searching after a few years, and concentrated on just living and trying to be a good person. I was married and had a 3-year-old daughter when I moved to Alaska, where my husband was stationed. I got a job with an oil company at the main office in Anchorage (this was the early 70s and construction on the Alaskan Pipeline was in full swing.) My search started again for God, on behalf of our daughter. I wanted her to know God, to learn of Christ, and it became an urgent issue for me. As a family, we started going to various Christian churches, but none were satisfactory. My husband, G_, had a friend who invited us to a new congregation that had just started up, that met in a school gymnasium on Sunday evenings. We left our daughter with some friends, as we had been told that this meeting was for adults only. I had not had much experience with charismatic groups, but this young man had told G_  that he would “feel the spirit there.” It was a little after six when we arrived, and there were about 50-60 people there. We were greeted by some very enthusiastic men and women who shook our hands, saying “Praise the Lord!” in loud voices. This was unusual, as most greetings in churches I had attended before were of the handshake, a smile and a “hello, glad you're here” variety. We went in and sat in the middle of a row of folding chairs, about halfway back from the platform at the front of the room. G_ sat next to me, and we chatted with people around us as we waited to the service to begin. The preacher stood up on the stand and started to speak about salvation. He was intense, demanding in his fervor. Were we saved? Had we turned our lives over to the Spirit? Was Jesus in our hearts? Can you feel the Spirit? As I sat there listening, I started to feel uncomfortable. I looked around and everyone seemed to be listening intently to what the preacher was saying, enjoying his speech and nodding in agreement with what he said. I felt nervous, as if something bad was going to happen. I whispered to G_ my growing alarm, and he said everything was fine. It felt to me as if a black cloud was forming over me, pressing down on me, choking me. I actually felt doomed. That's the only way to describe it. I was going to die. I started crying with the fear. I told G_ that I couldn't stand being in there anymore and wanted to leave. He said he was enjoying himself and didn't want to go. I had stopped listening to the preacher in my distress, so I was shocked when he pointed at me, exclaiming “That sister feels the spirit! See the tears of joy! Come up and tell us about how you've been saved!” I could not have been more frightened than if Satan himself had been standing there in front of me. I jumped up, pushed my way through to the aisle, and literally ran out of the building, jumping into our car and locking the doors. My panic subsided, and I sat there, waiting for Sam and wondering what in the world had just happened. I had never felt such terror in my life. I had not experienced such negative emotions in any church I had ever attended, nor had I ever felt so scared of something that no one else seemed to be aware of. The meeting finally ended and Sam and his friend came out to the car. I don't remember much of the rest of the evening. We got home, went to bed, and I decided not to think about the experience anymore. I told G_ I never wanted to go back, and he agreed, saying that if I didn't like it, we wouldn't go again. But he just didn't understand how I really felt about the whole experience. I had decided that no church was right for me or our daughter, and that I would just teach her from the Bible, so she wouldn't be left ignorant. Hubby got busy with his career in the Army and left all the “religious stuff” to me. We were sharing an apartment with a Seventh-day Adventist couple, as housing was very expensive in Anchorage. I had studied Adventism, along with most of the other Christian sects, and was not impressed with their doctrine. We had several interactions with various missionary efforts, and had spoken with Adventists and Jehovah's Witnesses who had come to our door looking for the other couple. I politely said no to each of them as they requested me to listen to their teachings. They weren't what I was looking for.

I had not investigated 'Mormonism', as my parents had told me of how they had talked with a returned Mormon missionary and convinced him that he needed to go back to his Presbyterian church and become a Christian again. The Mormon church was a cult, according to my father; one that didn't believe in Jesus, took money away from their adherents, and worshiped some man named Joseph Smith. He felt it was a scam front for a huge business enterprise making money for so-called “prophets”. I had not met any Mormons that I knew of, except my cousin, who had come to visit us when I was about 8 years old, asking my grandmother for information about her family. She seemed to be a nice person, but she didn't stay long, and I soon forgot about the whole visit. It was a couple of months after my bad experience that two men came to the door one afternoon. I assumed they were more Jehovah's Witnesses come to talk with our housemates, and I told the men that the couple weren't there. One of them replied, “We're not here for them, we are here for you.” I looked more closely at his nametag. “Elder Anderson, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints”. This was a new one on me. He asked if they could speak with me and my husband. I told him he was at work, but that he would be home in a couple of hours. He said they would come back when he was home and speak with both of us together. They came back the next day, and from the first moment they came into the apartment, I had a good feeling about them being there. I felt peaceful in a way I hadn't for a very long time. Elder Anderson and Elder Jacobs started speaking about God, how He is our Father, how much He loves us, and that they had a message to deliver to us. As I listened, I realized that I knew what they were saying was true. One of them started talking about a vision seen by a youth named Joseph Smith. I asked them “Are you Mormons?” Elder Anderson explained that some people called them that, but that wasn't the name of the church. As he talked, I still felt good about what he was saying, and when he asked if they could come again, we said yes. As they continued to teach us, I asked questions, all the questions I had been asking since I had been a teen. There were answers to my questions! And they made sense! I was soaking in the information like a sponge. This was as different an experience as the very bad one I had had just a few short weeks ago. I was hungry to find out more, and started asking deeper questions about faith, God, Jesus, salvation, everything that I had asked about before and never received satisfactory answers. I called my parents back in Michigan and told them that I was talking with the Mormon missionaries. Mom told me I had “rocks in my head” to listen to anything they could have to say. Dad told me to ask questions, to not take anyone's word for anything, to find out all I could about this cult. Mom sent me a copy of Kingdom of the Cults, which I dutifully read. But I could already tell that the book held no truth in it, even in its description of other churches I was familiar with. I threw it away and started reading the Book of Mormon the missionaries had left with us. Following Dad's advice, I started asking about things the elders had no answers for that had been bothering me; but instead of passing them off as “mysteries of God that we aren't to know about yet”, I was told “we'll find that out and let you know.” The Church was still young and growing in Anchorage, and there weren't many print resources in the meetinghouse library. They brought me Jesus the Christ by Talmadge they'd borrowed from a member, several volumes of the Journal of Discourses of Brigham Young, copies of conference talks, articles from the Ensign magazine, the Doctrine and Covenants and Pearl of Great Price, and anything else they thought I'd be interested in reading. I devoured all of it, including the Bible, but my most intensive reading was reserved for the Book of Mormon. All of it made sense, all of it fit. But I had not yet had a confirmation of it that was as powerful as my confirmation of the evil resident in the church I had recently attended, or the lack of spirit and knowledge in the churches I had attended as a child. I needed to know there was a Spirit more powerful than the one I had felt in that school gymnasium. I wanted to know the God I had been searching for. During the third or fourth lesson, my husband quit talking with the missionaries. They had taught us about the Word of Wisdom (Doctrine & Covenants sec. 89), and giving up his smoking, his coffee, his occasional beer, the odd toke on a joint was more than he was prepared to do. For various reasons, I had either never started or already stopped using any of those things, so the Word of Wisdom was not a problem for me. They had asked us to go to church, and as G_ didn't want to go, our daughter and I went by ourselves. The meetinghouse was small, but used by 4 separate wards, or congregations, so there were people coming and going all week long. I went into the building and was greeted warmly by several people, most of whom probably thought I was coming with the next group. I doubt most of the members had any idea who was in the other wards, as they were growing so quickly. We went into the chapel and sat down near the back. I was amazed that regular-looking people were running the meeting, from the three men sitting up on the stand in business suits, to the young men in white shirts passing the communion, to the talks given by a woman and a man who were obviously not 'preachers'. It was peaceful and comforting. There was no pomp, no loud impassioned speeches, no fancy robes and furnishings, no mysticism—just regular people speaking in normal voices about God, Jesus Christ, and the gospel. They spoke of Christ as a beloved relative, the Son of a perfect and loving Father. There was singing, speaking and a calm feeling of peace. I don't remember anything dramatic happening during the meeting. But when I left the building after it was over, something amazing happened. As I moved down the steps, it felt like a warm blanket was being gently pulled off my shoulders, leaving me feeling alone and cold. It wasn't particularly cold out, but I definitely felt left open to the elements in a way I had never felt before. What was it that I had lost? Why hadn't I been aware of it before? I turned around and went back inside, trying to recapture the feeling that seemed to belong to the building, but not to me. But I couldn't get it back. It was gone, and I wanted nothing more than to feel that warmth around me again. It was the complete opposite to the feeling I had had at the other church meeting. This is what I had been waiting for. When I asked the missionaries about it later that week, they said what I had felt was the Spirit of God bearing witness to me of the truth. I wasn't aware of it until it was gone. I decided to be baptized so I could always have that feeling with me, but, as my husband didn't want me to get baptized, I had to wait 5 months, until he finally gave his permission. Shortly after my baptism, he left me and our daughter to follow another path. Since my baptism and confirmation I have often felt the quiet witness of the Spirit confirming to my mind the truth. This gift of this witness of the Spirit was incredible, but it paled before the witness I received of the Book of Mormon. A couple of weeks after my experience at the meetinghouse, I was at work, reading the Book of Mormon during my lunch break. I worked by myself in a room that housed a very noisy machine that made copies of oil well bore soundings and surface maps. As I sat and read 3 Nephi, I got to the point where Christ comes to the Nephites after His resurrection. Suddenly, I felt something strange happening. A warm feeling was growing inside me, centered in my chest and radiating outward throughout my body. It felt like the sun had been placed inside me, shining so brightly that I felt I would be totally consumed by it. I couldn't hear the machine anymore, I wasn't even aware of the room I was in. I was completely focused on the light. I don't know how long it lasted, but the feeling eventually faded, and I was left with the certain knowledge that the Book of Mormon was true. I learned later that this particular witness of the Spirit is not something that happens to everyone, and I have always been very thankful for it. I have had other encounters with the Spirit, but nothing like this. Mostly, I feel the warm, comforting presence that doesn't fade unless I drive it away through disobedience. The difference between Satan's influence and God's is so clear to me now. Satan wants me to feel afraid of God, to feel like there's no hope, no chance of feeling good again, no salvation possible. He doesn't care about me, or what ultimately happens to me, as long as I don't turn to Christ. He wants me to be miserable. He has convinced many in the world that the thoughts and philosophies of men are as good as God's truth, as long as it's mixed in with a little scripture. He wants everyone to believe that just being a 'pretty good person' will make us happy. The gift of discernment, through the power of the Holy Spirit, allows me to see the influence of Satan on the world around me, so I can avoid its spirit-dulling enticements and the downward spiral of carnality and pride. The Lord makes me feel loved and hopeful, precious to Him and worth bringing home to my Father. He is interested in what I do, knows who I am, and loves me more than I can imagine. He wants me to be truly happy, and knows what it takes for me to understand His will for me. I feel safe and strengthened when I feel His Spirit. I think the Spirit has always been present in my life, but because I was never taught to recognize Him, I was unaware of His presence. I was walking through life with my spiritual eyes closed, unaware of the blessings I had been granted all through my childhood and young adulthood. I knew of Christ, but I didn't know Him. I feel grateful for His sacrifice on my behalf, and forever indebted to Him. I know where I'm supposed to be now, and what church I need to belong to. I know that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the only true and living church on the face of the earth. I know that there are true prophets again upon the earth, just as there were anciently. I know God the Father and His Son. I know that I can pray and receive answers to my prayers. I know They love me, and want me to return to live with Them. I know I have been saved from the effects of Adam and Eve's transgression, and that, if I stay faithful and endure to the end, I will be given the supernal gift of eternal life with my Heavenly Father. I have a testimony that Christ is real, that He loves all of us, that He wants us to be happy, and that there is a plan to get us back to our Father, if we are willing to follow Him. My questions have not all been answered, as I don't have all the knowledge and experience I need to understand the answers yet. But I know they will be answered eventually, as long as I put forth the effort needed to accomplish that. The Holy Spirit is a real influence in my life, guiding me and encouraging me to do what I can, and leave the rest to Christ and His grace. I know the Book of Mormon is true, is scripture, and is an infallible guide to Christ. Together with the Bible, they are a dual witness of the divinity of Christ, of the hope that is ours in the gospel, and of the marvelous love of our Creator, Father and Savior. As a child, no one had told me that I could find out for myself the answers I needed. But a loving Father sent two young men to open my eyes and heart to the truth. Like Paul, I now "...can do (and know) all things through Christ Jesus, who strengthens me.”

Mount Moriah

Mount Moriah—What we gain when we sacrifice everything. I have not led a particularly saintly life. Like most people, I want to be happy, to help when it's convenient, to go along with the flow with a minimum of fuss and bother. I avoid loud noises, loud people, and loud behavior in both myself and others. A quiet, predictable life, no drama, and basic creature comforts have been my goal for years. Sacrifice was not high on my agenda. Don't get me wrong; I am quite willing to help others, to be a good example to my children, to spend an afternoon performing service. I will wash dishes after a church dinner, help a neighbor pack to move, stay up all night with a sick child, all the usual sacrifices one makes for their family, neighbors and community. But Sacrifice with a capital “S”? That should be for the “noble and great” among us: Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Mother Teresa, Christ. Not for an ordinary person like me. When I was a child, our family was nominally Lutheran, and I can remember having to give up something for Lent. My parents would give up alcohol; I was expected to give up sweets or play time or something else I valued and would miss. I wasn't terribly successful at this enforced sacrifice, and spent the 40 days trying to figure ways around the restrictions. I don't remember the explanation for why I was sacrificing, and I don't think it did much for my spirituality. I have since learned, through the common life experiences I've had, a much more mature understanding of the concept of sacrifice. But it wasn't until a few years ago that I finally started learning what sacrifice really entails. Many people have given much more than I have. In 2001, our son enlisted in the Army National Guard. He did his basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia, and is attached to the 125th Infantry unit in Flint, Michigan. He loves being in the military, thrives under the discipline, and did well in all his training. As a member of the National Guard, I assumed he would be called up to help in natural disasters, on American soil. Then the military started calling up NG units to go overseas, to help with an increasingly far-flung presence around the world. He was sent to the Sinai, on the border between Egypt and Israel, as part of a peacekeeping mission set up during the Camp David accords under President Carter. He spent two months in Latvia, training with the Latvian Army. Both of these missions he volunteered for, wanting to be busy and actively engaged, and I was so proud of his service, not only to his country, but to the world. Then he volunteered for the mission that would change my life forever. In 2005, he told us that he was going to volunteer to go to Iraq, as a part of a regular Army unit to be stationed in Baghdad. He knew what he would be doing, and knew there would be danger, not only to him, but to all the men in his unit. I did not want him to go on this assignment. He was going to be a top gunner on an unarmored Humvee, driving the roads around Baghdad, clearing IEDs (improvised explosive devices) and looking for insurgents, so convoys of men and materiel could travel safely to and from the city. As the man on top of the vehicle, he would be the first man shot at by enemies, the most exposed man in the patrol. He told me very little about what he would be doing, trying to keep me from worrying. But I had seen videos on the news of the fighting in and around Baghdad at that time. The Army's smaller light infantry vehicles were not adequately armored against buried explosives; Humvees were particularly vulnerable. And the National Guardsmen seemed to pull the most hazardous duty with the fewest resources. I spent the next few weeks in agony, not wanting him to go, but not being able to dissuade him. I was so afraid of losing my only son. I suppose I could have gotten him to back out of it if I had raised enough of a fuss, but that would have damaged my relationship with him, and seriously compromised his sense of self-worth. This was a job he felt he was called to do. The night before he left in January, 2006, I was simply frantic with worry. As I knelt for my evening prayer, I felt overwhelmed by fear and foreboding. The only words I could force out through my tears were “Heavenly Father, please keep our son safe.” In my heart, I had turned everything over to Him. I knew there was absolutely nothing I could do but pray for him, for his safety and the safety of the men he would be protecting and working with. As I knelt and wept, a calm swept over me like a cool breeze across the desert. “Your son will be fine” was what I felt. Nothing depended on me, everything was the responsibility of the Lord. I had given away my son, given him over to the keeping of the One who loves him more than I ever could. I had laid my love for my son and my faith in the Lord on the altar of sacrifice. I was well aware that the Lord's idea of “he'll be fine” was probably radically different than mine, and that there was a real possibility that he might not be coming home. But I felt calm, knowing that, whatever happened, he would truly be all right. And it was. He returned damaged, but alive, having had 18 months of dangerous duty and a truck blown out from under him. His unit only lost 2 men during that time, which was very difficult for him, but a manifest blessing from the Lord on behalf of him and the unit as a whole. Many other units had lost significantly higher numbers of good men. He struggles with back pain from the explosion, PTS from the head trauma, and problems with alcohol abuse. But he has found a wonderful woman who has stuck by him through his trials, and has given him 2 wonderful children. He was changed by his experience, and has lost and gained much, but as the Lord had promised me, he truly is 'fine'.

We don't hear about Sarah's reaction to the events surrounding her beloved son, how she felt as she watched Abraham and Isaac leave home and journey to Mount Moriah. How great was her sorrow? Abraham would have wanted to spare his wife the details of his task from the Lord, but she knew the heavy sorrow he carried. I doubt that, after all their many years together, Abraham would have been able to hide anything from her. What prayers raced through her mind as she watched her only son walk away from home to fulfill a commandment from God that would keep him from ever returning? I can well imagine her on her knees the whole time they were gone, praying for a miracle that would bring her son home. Abraham was not the only one who was to perform a sacrifice. As great an offering was required of her. I have heard people wonder why Jehovah would ask for such a sacrifice from Abraham and Sarah, having given them the promise of a posterity that would bless all the peoples of the world. Some have said it was a test of Abraham's faith, to see if he would really do all that that he was asked to do. I don't think it was that. Abraham had proven again and again his faith in God and his willingness to do all that the Lord asked him to do. God knew what was in Abraham's heart. But perhaps Abraham, and Sarah, needed to know something about themselves, and about how much God loves His children. Abraham would have willingly died for his God, would have given his life for his wife and child. He had experienced the horror of child sacrifice firsthand, and Sarah would have known of his experience. Sacrifice his son? What loving parent is there who would put his child in harm's way? Our first instinct is to protect and shield our children from danger, to give up our lives for theirs. D&C 136:36 states “Abraham was commanded to offer his son Isaac; nevertheless, it was written: Thou shalt not kill. Abraham, however, did not refuse, and it was accounted unto him for righteousness.” By choosing to obey the Lord, even in something he would have been vehemently opposed to under any other circumstances, Abraham learned the true meaning of sacrifice and obedience. He received back his son, and the knowledge that anything he gave the Lord would come back to him. Anything we honestly give, “in faith, nothing wavering”, is returned changed, purified and blessed beyond our capacity to measure. In this mortal world, we do not have the vision to see the desired outcomes of events; we cannot see “the end from the beginning”, as the Lord can. We have to learn to trust Him completely, even though what we can see is scary. As Abraham did, we need to know God as our Father, and to trust Him without faltering in our faith. The word “sacrifice” does not meaning simply giving something up. It means to make something holy, sacred to the Lord and to ourselves. To sacrifice is to allow God to sanctify it, to change it from something temporal and unclean to something eternal and pure. Whatever we give to the Lord, be it our time, our talents, our worldly possessions, or even our most precious relationships, He changes them, purifies them, and gives them back to us as celestial gifts. When we can reach the point of sacrificing ourselves—our fears, desires, hopes and weaknesses—on the altar of His love, that's when we receive the greatest gift of all. We get back ourselves, purified and glorious beings of Light, fit to live with Him in eternal lives. In order to gain “all that the Father hath”, we all eventually have to travel the long road to Mount Moriah, and offer up everything we have. Only by walking in Abraham's and Sarah's footsteps, can we begin to inherit their blessings, the blessings promised in the covenant Abraham and Sarah made with God—the blessings we look for as we make our covenants with Him. As we consecrate everything we love to the Lord, we become more like Abraham and Sarah, and by extension, more like Christ, more worthy of the trust placed in us by a loving Heavenly Father. And He, in turn, honors that covenant by giving back to us so much more—great heaps of celestial gold in exchange for our meager handful of copper pennies. The posterity of Abraham has truly become “as the sands of the sea, and the stars of the sky” because of his and Sarah's willingness to sacrifice their most precious son to the Lord. The altar of sacrifice is not just where we give our all, it's where we receive His all.