That Which Does Not Kill Me

I recently learned that the very thing that drives so many people where I live crazy is also the secret behind our spectacular sunsets. It turns out that the dust, the high altitude, and the bone-dry air—the trio that makes daily life feel like a battle with the elements—are the same ingredients that paint our skies in colors that look almost unreal.

For years I’ve grumbled about the dryness that clogs my nose at night and leaves my eyes feeling like sandpaper. And the dust—don’t even get me started. The slightest breath of wind can fling enough grit into the air to make you wonder if we’re all going to die of black lung. But then evening comes, and suddenly all that irritation feels like the price of admission. Because, wow. Our sunsets don’t just appear; they perform. Bold and fiery—light and color spilling across the sky and over the mountains in a way that can't be captured in words.

What’s really happening is a little atmospheric artistry. As the sun sets, its light comes through the sky at a lower angle, scattering the shorter wavelengths—the blues and violets—out of sight. The dust particles in the air ramp up the drama, catching and amplifying the remaining reds and oranges. Meanwhile, dry air and high elevation keep those colors pure and intense. The result is a sky that looks like it was painted on purpose—because, in a way, it was.

It’s easy for me to overlook the spectacular shows that play out in the western sky each evening—to just close the blinds and ignore them. Instead, return to rubbing my irritated eyes and smoothing lotion over the dry skin on my knuckles, grumbling about this place and its cold, arid weather. One day, I swear, it’ll be the death of me.

But take me out of this dry, cold, dusty place and what would I notice? What would I learn? Would I go blind to the beautiful trees and grow tired of the moist, damp air somewhere else? Probably.

Funny how quickly we forget to appreciate the things that come to us without any effort. A sunset we barely look up to notice. A body that keeps us going day after day. Hot water we assume will always be there. Even a simple smile from a stranger. Meanwhile, somewhere in the world, someone is wishing for exactly one of those things we take for granted.

My son served a mission in Ghana, and for two years we were lucky enough to video chat with him every Monday morning. He sent home plenty of emails too—photos filled with snakes, chickens, goats, and the everyday chaos of his surroundings. But what stood out most were the smiles. Not just the smiles of the people of Ghana—people who live without so many of the comforts we take for granted—but the smile on our son’s face as well.

Why? Because of contrast. Because there’s benefit to be found in opposition. The things that challenge us, stretch us, or push us outside our comfort zone don’t just test us—they strengthen us. Opposition has a way of reshaping us. 

You're familiar with the expression, That which does not kill me, makes me stronger.

But here's the thing: you get to choose. You get to choose what exactly that which does not kill actually does to you or for you.

That which does not kill me grants me new perspective.

That which does not kill me teaches me a lesson.

That which does not kill me makes me more grateful.

That which does not kill me gives me purpose.

That which does not kill  me a writes for me a better life story.

The other day I was watching a clip from Dead Poets Society—the scene where John Keating, the teacher, is explaining the purpose of poetry to his students. He says: “We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race, and the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering—these are all noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love—these are what we stay alive for.”

I would add one more thing to John Keating's list of reasons to be alive: the sheer richness of learning. The way experiences in life increase our understanding and expand not just our minds but also our lives—one might call it poetic.

Life’s experiences—the good and the painful, the easy and the difficult—give it depth, beauty, and meaning. Sometimes, it's through the hard times that our purpose quietly unfolds. For this, I am profoundly grateful: for the light and the shadow, the ease and the struggle, each one an opportunity to grow. 

Too many of our days slip by while we’re busy thinking about all the wrong things—dwelling on stress instead of gratitude, worry instead of joy, noise instead of love and learning. And I get it, it isn't easy. With so many responsibilities, it’s hard to stay positive, to find that good perspective. But even in the busiest times, we still get to choose where our thoughts wander in the quiet moments.

So where will we focus? On the dry, dusty air scratching at our patience? Or on the brilliant sky at sunset, beautifully painted just for us?