Part of the Newseum's 9/11 display: salvaged wreckage of the broadcast antenna that stood atop the World Trade Center's North Tower and a wall of newspaper front pages covering the event.

Josh and I spent last Saturday in Washington D.C. visiting the Newseum, a museum housing a vast amount of artifacts from news-making history as well as galleries detailing the history of the news industry. The highlights can be viewed in a couple of hours, but we spent about four hours there and certainly didn't see everything thoroughly.

While there are a few exhibits that feature news made by commendable feats (the Neil Leifer sports photography gallery is a fascinating and beautiful example), the Newseum reflects that appalling acts most often make news. The Pulitzer Prize gallery makes this startlingly evident. The gallery contains a rounded wall displaying each Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph. Selected photographs, enlarged and accompanied by written commentary, hang in the room surrounding the wall. Nearly every photograph captures the terrible effects of evil: hatred, disease, starvation, death. We viewed each photograph, read each story. Though filled with visitors, the room was silent, and I left the gallery feeling sad and guilty. Since then, I've been thinking about the purpose of such photographs. What are the reasons for taking them, publishing them, praising them, displaying them, viewing them? Is there any good in doing so?

After thinking through it, I believe there is some good to be derived from such photographs. And while recording history, publicizing events, and promoting awareness are beneficial ends, the most significant purpose a graphic photograph serves is eliciting a response from the viewer. The photographer, publisher, museum, and photograph itself all hold power in drawing a visceral reaction. But the viewer must allow the photograph to achieve its greatest effect: the persuaded mind. 

Even considering this potential benefit, I still wonder about the use of such photographs. Explicit images should not be necessary to motivate efforts to overcome tragedy. Shouldn't a mere whisper of the existence of evil prompt one to act? 

Nature displays the magnificence of its creator. And, I, a human, the pinnacle of creation, am made in the image of God. When I live authentically, as the person He created me to be, I not only express myself to the world, but also project Him by displaying His characteristics. Authentic living reflects the image of God embedded in the soul.

When I observe the natural world, I am overwhelmed. When I experience the product of God-implanted talent, I sense it to be something extraordinary. When I encounter people who exhibit His characteristics from within them, I am inspired. Realizing each revelation of the nature of God elicits wonder.

'Wonder' not only implies a feeling of awe, but also conveys a sense of curiosity, a desire to know more. It precisely captures the reaction to these experiences. Each glimpse of who He is, every insight into His nature, is both awe-inspiring and curiosity-inducing. I see part of Him, and I want to see more. Recognizing these glimpses for what they are, I am compelled to look for them all around and within me, piecing together the revealed evidence, learning more about who His is, and continually experiencing wonder.

The latest version appears simple: a few handfuls of circles, arrows, and labels. But the diagram itself, while meaningful, cannot convey the significance of acquiring the understanding to make it. It has led me to examine my foundational beliefs in minute detail. When I first began, I was surprised to find some of my beliefs were unintelligible notions or based on startlingly weak principles. A few conflicted with each other. I wasn't satisfied with this and started focusing on the ongoing process of defining and understanding my beliefs. I began researching and contemplating the nature of God, creation, the fall of man, sin, human nature, the knowledge of good and evil, the spirit, the mind, consciousness, conscience, the will, emotions, Mosaic Law, the incarnation, Christ's teachings, the atonement, sanctification and eternity. I have been dissecting and evaluating, reforming or eliminating beliefs judged deficient, weighing and adopting new, and praying for insight throughout. There have been moments of frustration when understanding was elusive and moments of gratitude when it came to light before me.

I have been continuously updating my diagram of the soul. Thus far, I have made over two dozen versions. I have written pages upon pages of notes. This process has proven practical, as it is not merely a matter of learning about a religion; it is a matter of understanding life. It is not only knowledge-imparting; it is purpose-revealing.

The formation and reformation of beliefs has, of course, been occurring in my mind since birth, as it has in every mind. I am now intensely aware of it, though, and pursue it with greater passion and purpose. It is thrilling to realize there is no point of conclusion. The truth of an infinite God can never be fully understood.

I am living, so I have time. And with each passing second, I have the choice of how I will spend my time. There are, of course, responsibilities dictated by the roles I hold, obligations resulting from commitments I choose to make. There are the time-consuming situations that arise outside of my control, collateral circumstances of living. Yet, while fulfilling these must-do and have-to moments, I still decide the way I live them. There is even time left completely to my discretion, that spent only as I wish.

Additionally, I have been granted various abilities. Some things I struggle to do, and some things I do well. These abilities also carry the option to be used as I determine, or even not at all.

Most significantly, I have been offered love. I can respond to it however I choose.

I have been given time; I have been given abilities; I have been given love. Each is wrapped in choice, a gift itself.

All of this compels me to ask myself again and again, forcing myself to realize the gravity of the question and the implications of its answer:

What am I doing with what I have been given?

When I was six, I received a stuffed dog as a gift from the pastor of my childhood church. I gave him the pastor's name: Chester. He became my constant companion. Chester took bike rides, spent the night at Grandma's, and went to school.

He also attended church. One summer Sunday evening, Chester and I were playing in the parking lot after the service, and I was tossing him up into the air and counting how many flips he could do. Sometimes I missed him as he tumbled back down, and he would land on the pavement instead of in my arms. I would giggle, pick him up, and throw him into the air again.

That night at bedtime, I snuggled him up under my chin, looked down, and wailed. Chester had lost an eye! My mom attempted to calm my hysterics, reasoning that it must have fallen out in the parking lot and promising we would drive to the church in the morning to search for it.

When we arrived the next day, the parking lot was busy with machinery tearing out the existing pavement and pouring down new, working right in the spot where we had played the night before. Chester's eye could never be found. Later there were offers to repair him, but I refused them. I loved him just as he was.

Chester continued to join me at summer camp, attend birthday parties, and travel on family vacations. Our relationship changed as I grew older, but even after I stopped taking him along on outings, he still cuddled me each night while I slept.

Over the years, I have shed the majority of my childhood belongings, but I will never part with my dear Chester. He is almost twenty-five years old now, ancient in dog years. He has a hole in his right ear and scratches on his nose. His fur has lost its fluff. Most of his stuffing is squished, making him skin-thin in some spots and lumpy in others. 

I still love him just as he is, and he still winks at me.

We've had an unusual winter thus far, weather-wise. The most significant snow of the season came oddly early, when six inches appeared in late October. Since then, there have been a few dustings and one storm that brought a couple of inches, but no notable snowfalls otherwise. I typically welcome snow, the sparkling solace in the stretches of wintry gloom. But this year, instead of snow days, a number of spring-like days punctuating the winter have provided a cheery respite. The temperature fluctuations have been frequent and sudden, with sunny sixty degree days nestled between cloudy, frosted ones. In the midst of a bleak season (of weather or life), it is easy to slip into thinking of the 'now' as the 'always', but these days have been insistent in reminding me that there exists something other than a dreary snow-less sky. Just a wisp of warm breeze transports me to a windows-wide-open spring day, unwrapping feelings bundled away from winter's bitter cold.

Each night after Josh reads her a story and kisses her good night, Madilyn lies tucked under her fuzzy pink blanket and cuddled up with any number of stuffed animals, and I snuggle beside her for our nightly bedtime routine. We first sing "You are My Sunshine," often together, although sometimes she just listens sleepily while I sing to her. After the song, I ask what her most favorite and least favorite parts of the day were. And she always begins by saying she has two most favorite parts, and one is "this part right now."