My Lamp And Oil

I sit here thinking. I am sad. I cannot fake it as much as I used to be able to. I think of the gospel and what I have been taught. I recall a talk not too long ago, I think it was in General Conference, but I am not sure exactly. In this talk it was said that every sin I commit today is another drop of blood Christ had to shed for me so long ago. At first, I thought about this and everytime I did something wrong, my thoughts went dramatically to another red spash on the ground, mixing with the ones prior, all because of my wickedness.

I think of those drops now. Along with the drops I am to put inside my lamp. Bit by bit, I am to build my testimony, live righteously and gain knowledge and understanding. Yet, day by day, those red drops keep falling, seemingly faster than I can fill my lamp. I cannot keep pace with them. The harder I try, the more I seem to fail.

I wonder how many hopes and dreams, now dried up, He had to pay for? I wonder if my savior thought of me, as I am right now, as He bled? I wonder if He thought about the LDS Middle Singles Program as those precious drops fell? I wonder how many dances are in that puddle at His feet? How many? I wonder.

I think of the alarming news we hear about, yet one piece of news is not mentioned, though it is most alarming to me. The singles represent the largest "group" in the Church, yet they are the smallest number in attendance. Why is that? Because they do not go to church. It's easy to figure that one out. Many will say it is for foolish reasons, the most insulting, yet most common, is that they did not have a strong enough testimony.

I recall a story from my youth. In it a young boy asked his grandma why she went to church every week even though she knew so much about the gospel all ready. The wise old grandma told the boy to take a pail and fill it with water and bring it to her. As he did, the water seeped out of holes rusted through on the bottom. By the time he got the bucket to her, it was empty. She told him that this bucket represented her spirit each week at church. She went to fill it up, and as the days passed, it became empty, and she had to go back to fill it back up again.

Sometimes I go to church and my bucket is not filled.

Sometimes I go to a singles activity and feel like someone busted out the bottom of my bucket.

Sometimes I go to bed at night, unable to sleep because of the pain in my heart.

I have holes in my lamp. That vessil meant to keep my testimony safe and secure, is leaking. If I spend time patching it up, then I am not filling it. If I try to fill it, then the holes just seem to get bigger and it leaks faster. I really wish there was a "do-over" button in life.