A Survivor of Abuse: My First Round of Counseling and a Few Years of Peace

I didn't know who to trust with this new pile of garbage I'd been forced to remember. Fortunately my parents knew of a semi-retired counselor in their church. Mom gave them a call and he agreed to see me, to see if we'd be a good fit.

I saw him on a semi-weekly basis for a few months. The first thing he told me was he believed me. I was honestly shocked. It had never occurred to me that someone wouldn't believe. I was telling the truth. I WAS TELLING THE TRUTH!!! While it was reassuring to know he believed me, it made me wonder if anyone around me didn't. 

Those first few months were not easy. I had a handful of memories return that were awful when they came, but the really hard part were the constant panic attacks. I hadn't really known much about panic attacks until my oldest started going through them. My attacks were different than hers, so at first I didn't recognize them for what they really were. I thought they were a form of "muscle memory", as if I was some how going through moments of my abuse from the past.

When the doctor told me they were simply panic attacks I made them stop. I know that sounds weird and probably not real, but looking back at it I think it was a way of "stuffing" that abused and frightened part of myself back down into the recesses of my mind. I put a lock back on that door and it would be years before it opened back up.

One of the things the doctor had me do was write a letter to my abuser, telling him what his actions had done to me over the years. No one should ever have to write a letter like that. Still, it felt good to finally put the thoughts down on paper. It was nice to say in writing exactly what I'd been thinking. I hated this man. I loved this man. I wanted him to be happy and despised him for using me in such a way that I would believe in my core I would never deserve to be happy. How do you put those feelings and more into mere words? And was I a bad person for wanting him to hurt?

Another day the doctor asked me to sit in my chair while he placed another chair right in front of me and imagine my abuser was sitting there. All of a sudden that chair was way too close. Did he have to be so close, even if it was only in my mind? I was supposed to talk to my abuser, to tell him what I wanted to say right to his imagined face. I went from the gut. I spoke as if he really was in front of me. It was terrifying, obviously worse than writing the letter. My doctor would occasionally prompt me by saying, "Tell him how you're feeling right now" or asking "What did that one action cause to happen in your life?"

Then I was asked to do the impossible. I was asked to sit in his chair and speak in his voice. While I hated every moment of it - never did I want to understand this man - it was a good thing. Not because I gained empathy for the man, but because trying to see things from that side of the situation helped me to understand on some level that no matter what I did or didn't do to or for my abuser, he was never going to be happy. He would never be satisfied. All of this really was his problem, not mine.

Too bad it didn't mean I would or could suddenly forgive and forget. I did gain a measure of peace for a few years. Little did I know what was brewing under the surface, frantically trying to scrape its way out from that locked door. I would get indications of it here and there, like sudden dizzy spells that in the past would mean a panic attack was trying to come on or a sudden vision of his face hovering over mine as he yelled and yelled at me. Like the moment I realized I didn't have to give in to those panic attacks, I would simply deny it all from happening, in essence putting a cork in a volcano.

In a few years time that volcano began showing signs it was ready to erupt.

Weird Dreams

The women in my family are vivid dreamers, and oh baby can those dreams get weird. I tend to go through dream spurts where I have tons that are unforgettable, but then I have a famine period when I don't recall having any or I simply can't remember what they were about. The last one I had a few nights ago is a doozy. So of course I decided to share it with all those who are bored enough to read through it!

I dreamed my oldest quit the school where she works as a lunch lady, so my former boss T (who just retired) made me come back. I was in charge of the pizzas. The only problem was the central kitchen had no more pizzas. So for several days the ladies had been forced to call in pizza orders to a pizza place (like a combination of Big Daddy's and Papa Johns). One coworker told me I was in charge of calling in. I did, and the lady on the other line had no idea what I was asking for and promptly hung up. I tried to call back, but someone was already on the other end of the line. She said someone had called the animal hospital from our number. I said I didn't call her. She also hung up.

I tried calling the pizza place again (starting to get nervous because it's getting closer to lunch time) but couldn't call out because T and K (manager and asst mngr) kept getting on the line. I go to coworker and tell her I can't get through to the pizza place. What to do? She said, "Keep trying!"

So I go to T's office only to find out they are the ones calling the animal hospital because another coworker's dog needs to see a doctor immediately! I don't even know if that particular coworker has a dog! They won't listen to me, so I decide to take matters into my own hands and walk downstairs to the freezer. I want to see if they have any chicken so I can make chicken salad sandwiches. That'll show them.

Keep in mind there is no downstairs at the actual school kitchen, and the moment I leave the kitchen and start down the stairs I'm back at my parents' previous home (where I grew up). At the bottom of the stairs I have to turn on a light because there's a ghost and it doesn't like me very much.

In a previous dream I'd had many weeks ago the central kitchen was also out of diced chicken. In this dream I remembered that little fact and became concerned that not only would I not be able to order in pizzas, but there wouldn't be chicken for sandwiches. Sure enough, no chicken. Now what?

I walk back upstairs where now the upper level of my parents' home is not just the school kitchen, but is also combined with JC Penney. I tried to find T to let her know we're not going to get the pizzas in time when I notice a woman trying to stuff a purse down her right sleeve. I was furious! I marched right over and demanded she put it back! The woman tried to get away, but I wouldn't let her past me. We literally started a not so fun game of tag when I decided to ignore the "Don't get in the way of a customer who is stealing from us" policy and grabbed the woman's arm, lifted up her sleeve, and removed the purse.

"Were you intending to pay for this?" I asked with full sarcasm dripping disdainfully from my lips. She stammered and stuttered and I dragged her over to T to tell her what happened. As I'm explaining I see out of the corner of my eye the woman patting herself down in different areas. "Did you try to hide other things?!" "Why no, of course not," she said with a full southern twang and a guilty look. I reached over to her other arm and put my hand up her sleeve. I don't remember what I pulled out, but by that time security came and I turned her over, disgusted. I looked at T and said angrily, "I have to pee!"

We're not done yet!

I head down a hall and suddenly I'm in an office building that's also connected to LDS Hospital. I figure, "It's a hospital. There's gotta be a bathroom somewhere." But all I can find are men's rooms. That's it. Only men can go potty in this building! I find a diaperless baby on the way - who has to poop - and I am even more desperate to find the Ladies Room. The more I look the more frantic I become! Anyone who has ever held a baby with do diaper will understand!

Suddenly T steps out of an elevator and claims she has to pee as well. This isn't shocking. At work she always had to use the bathroom. "I can't find a women's restroom," I cry out in frustration. "There are only men's rooms!"

We're in a hallway right next to a men's room, and one door over is a theater auditorium. On the other side I can see another hallway and I think, "If the men's room is on this side, then the women's room HAS to be on the other side!" But the ushers at the door won't let me through because I didn't buy a ticket and don't trust I'm not going to sit and watch the show (with my diaperless baby). T says she knows a secret way around. Believe it or not, we found a women's bathroom!

I take the baby in and wait for it to poop while T uses the toilet. When she's done I hand her the baby to clean up so I can take my turn. Only the toilet has disappeared! And when I turn around to ask about it T and the baby have vanished as well. I don't know what to do. Then I remember, it's a hospital. There's a maternity ward. There HAS to be a women's bathroom there!!! 

I make my way to the lower levels where I BEG the security guard to let me in so I can use the bathroom. He says okay, but apparently the bathrooms in the maternity ward are very well protected. "When you go through the door make a left, then a right, then another right..." and proceeds to tell me all the directions in the maze they created to keep out unwanted bathroom users. I go through the door, follow his directions, right down to the mysterious five holes in a wall at the end of the maze. I was told to pick the hole that said "pull". I place in my hand, grab a lever, and pull it so hard it stretches all the way out of the hole. A secret door opens up! As I run through the door a man slips through with me. We're heading to the same area. Except this is the maternity ward so no men's bathroom for him! We keep pace with one another until at last I see the placard above the door that will finally end my torture. Except it doesn't. Because it says MEN.

That's when I woke up

I am a Mormon from Utah, NOT a Utah Mormon

I am Utah born and bred. Forty plus years of living here have been ingrained into my bones. Take me away from my precious mountains and I am beyond lost. I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, which is pretty common here as it is the home base of this particular religion. And I absolutely hate the term "Utah Mormon".

It's used by members and nonmembers alike, but most of the time the term appears to be insulting. I don't want this to be a negative post, but I would like those out there to know how much it hurts to be lumped into a perception that does not stem from understanding where our particular bunch came from.

Are we a peculiar lot? You bet! Do people outside of our state have a preconceived notion of what it must be like to live here? No doubt! Is it a culture shock to actually be in the midst of us? Of course! I can't even begin to imagine what it's like to come here, whether you are or are not a member of our church, and spend some quality time with us. For some we are a loving lot, for others we come across as having a better-than-thou attitude.

My hope in writing today is to give people out there a small glimpse into why we are the way we are. Maybe, if I'm very lucky, you might see something of yourself in us.

To do this we need to do a speedy quick history lesson. Joseph Smith saw God the Father and Jesus Christ. He was directed to form a church. Missionaries were sent out. New members flocked from around the area and as far away as England. The people were repeatedly mobbed, harassed, and chased from their homes. Some were murdered. Their lands were coveted and stolen from them. Time and again they lived in such fear and destitution that many members left this new church in the hopes of finding some form of peace.

Joseph and a few other leaders were then murdered, and their people were forced to flee once more. This time, instead of trying to find a place close by, as they had before, the members were led far to the west. The journey was harrowing. There were tragedies and triumphs along the way. Many of the men were asked to join the army, leaving their women and children to make the trek alone. While getting to the Salt Lake Valley was their goal, it was a far from ideal place. The valley was pretty barren. They had to start all over again, and this time with next to nothing and little energy to do it. Most families were forced to live in dugouts until enough time passed and enough resources were gathered to build humble homes.

Families may not have remained in the valley itself. There were so many who were asked to go into areas with even harsher conditions up and down the territory and try to make a life. They began to build a temple when horrible news came: rumors were spreading to the US government that those Mormons were building an army against them. It was completely unfounded, but once more the members were afraid. This fear was now so much a part of who they were. Was there a place far enough away from hatred that would allow them to live without fear? These members had lost so much already.

Were these people perfect? Not even a little. Yes they had been through some horrendous things, were continuing to go through so much more. God had asked them to endure an awful lot, but I know He was with them every terrifying step of the way. Even here they made a whole lot of mistakes, ones which carry scars to this day in our hearts.

Let's fast forward to this time, keeping in mind the mindset of our pioneer ancestors has greatly influenced how their descendants have turned out and how we think. There is this niggling idea in the back of our minds that what has happened all those years ago might happen again. Their fear is still our fear. If you don't think the things your ancestors have endured have anything to do with your own way of thinking in the here and now, you're fooling yourself. Just take a look at someone who had a slave as an ancestor (I'm talking slaves of all kinds - African, Irish, Russian, etc. Slavery is an unfortunate mark of every history), and ask if that individual is not influenced by what their ancestor endured. Just as there are traits passed along from generation to generation (like musical abilities, writers, athletes), fear and tragedy can be passed along as well.

So for years and years our odd collection of people lived in a whole lot of fear from those who were not members of our church. It's a familiar worldwide story, I'm sorry to say. Ours was not the first to go through things like this. Having it happen here in America, where we were supposed to be free of such things, was certainly a drastic first. Keeping to ourselves became a protection, even as we tried so hard to live the tenets of our religion. Like any other religion we have individuals who are amazing at living what we are taught, and those who struggle with the basics.

We are not a perfect people. We struggle with doing things as Christ would: we judge, we sin, we're sometimes lazy, we say things that can hurt without realizing it, we fall short of expectations, etc. It's called being human. We are every bit as human as those who live outside of our state and our beliefs. Some are prideful, some so humble they may never believe they can make it back to live with our Heavenly Father. Some give everything they have, while others struggle to let go of the most basic things. Some are rude and arrogant, while others are loving and selfless. Some don't want to serve, while others volunteer for everything. Don't we all know people like this, no matter what beliefs they may hold? Are we not all like this at times? I know I am.

In the last twenty years or so I've seen a great shift in the words of our prophets that I believe is especially geared toward the members here in Utah. Instead of being taught to only date members of our church, to keep our members the closest as our friends, to look out for our fellow members first, we are now being encouraged to look outside of ourselves. It's a shift that has been necessarily slow. No change comes super easy, and changing the outlook of a religion-based state will come with difficulties. Yet now I believe those who are not members of our church outnumber those who are, or at least those who are active.

With our most recent prophet, President Russel Nelson, change is happening fast. So many of us are super excited, but there is still a presence of resistance that pervades, especially in the older generations. I am reminded of the Israelites Moses brought out of Egypt, who struggled so much to let go of their old traditions and had to wander through the wilderness for forty years. What good did that do? It allowed a newer generation to grow up - one that was prepared to accomplish a new work. I have witnessed it here in my own ward (local congregation). Boundaries were realigned among our neighborhoods that created a whole new ward. Most of those who grumbled about the change were the much older generation, because it wasn't what they were used to. Then changes began within the Church of Jesus Christ itself, and the grumbling intensified. However, I look at the younger generations and they are so ready for things to change! They are the ones who are making the strides us oldies-but-goodies simply can't...or won't.

We are learning, I promise!

All I am asking is for you to be cautious when you talk about those "Utah Mormons". Just as any other person in any state, any country, and any city, we are the way we are for a reason. Try to understand us. Be gentle. We're attempting to make it back to heaven in our own imperfect ways too.

A Survivor of Abuse: Triggers

It's easier to look back now and and see the "signs" that abuse must have been a part of my past. Until those memories began to return I never would have guessed so many odd behaviors I couldn't explain were trying to tell me something.

I have two instances in my life that, knowing what I know now, should have been huge indicators. At the times I simply explained it away as being an empath - having an ability to feel what others feel.

The first time was in high school. I was taking a family education class (you know, the one where you get the fake baby, only we had plants...much quieter) and we had come to the section on child abuse. I sat through 45 minutes of pictures on how children had been inflicted with injuries by people who were supposed to love and take care of them. I saw pictures of water burns, cigarette burns, broken limbs, and other things I've blocked out. This was just day one.

By the time class was done I was so upset I spent the rest of the day in my room, hiding. I wouldn't even come out for dinner. My family knew what had upset me, but none of us knew why I was so upset. It must be my tender heart, we all said.

The next day I couldn't make myself go to the class. I was a straight A student who never missed school unless I was really sick. That was the first time in high school I purposely didn't go. I made my way across the street to our church's seminary building where instead of hearing about the evils forced on little children I was able to hear about the Savior and His love for us.

Skip forward many years. I now had three children. My boys were 2 and 4. One evening I received an email from someone close to me. It was one of those pass along emails we would get and then forward to those on our email lists (before social media). It was the story of a little 3 year old boy who was lured away from his mom by two others boys at a local store, and basically tortured then killed.

By the time I was done reading the horrific things that were done to this little one I was sobbing. I prayed and prayed the email wasn't true, but an Internet search proved it did happen several years before. In my mind the little boy would take on the face of my two boys and I could not make it go away.

The entire next day I tried my best to be normal, but then I would begin the uncontrollable sobbing again. My sweet husband called in the late morning and I tried to explain what had upset me but like the time in high school he couldn't understand why I was so upset. As I was supposed to be a part of an activity that night with some of our local teenagers, he willingly gave me a priesthood blessing. It immediately helped calm my mind, and I realize now the veil was placed back over my memories so I would not remember. It wasn't time yet.

While typing all of this out I have had one more memory come. I remember as a teenager reading a book called, "Secrets" written by Blaine M. Yorgason and Sunny Oaks. It was a novel involving all types of abuse coming out into the open. I hated that book, but I still have it. It felt wrong to get rid of it. I don't recall much of what was in it; another form of repression on my part. Maybe one day I'll feel strong enough to read it again.

After that email both my husband and I knew I couldn't handle anything that had to do with the abuse of children. I had to stop watching the news. Many of our favorite television shows were switched off if abuse was a topic. I knew this was a trigger for me, I just didn't fully understand why.

Life is Like... Cheering for Everyone's Team

My younger son, B, loves sports. Being born into a family who isn't overly involved in sports has come as a grave disappointment to him, but we're all learning to cope. I simply prefer to cope with a hand full of chocolate.

In seventh grade B decided to try wrestling. I have no idea what that must have been like as an actual participant, but as a parent it was excruciating. I have never wanted to jump up from a bleacher, run down to the floor, and pull the hair of some unsuspecting fellow athlete in my entire life! All so he would just leave my son alone!

Fortunately I was able to temper those natural mama-bear instincts. Even more fortunately B decided against continuing on for another year. Instead we tried basketball.

From the parental point of view, basketball was a refreshing change. I didn't have to watch as my son was contorted into unnatural positions and was able to keep my inner beast under control. The only problem with basketball is B hadn't been playing it since he was in the womb. While other young men whose fathers had coached them since the dawn of time dribbled the ball up and down the court with the ease of the NBA, my son was learning how to play with others. It's easy to keep the ball from being stolen when no one else is there to steal it.

Basketball lasted a little more than a year before he decided it was fun when with friends, but it definitely wasn't something he wanted to continue. His latest venture is track. There are two different types of runners in track: sprinters and long distance. The first year he joined B decided to be a sprinter.

Being a sprinter entails running your absolute hardest in the shortest time possible. For me to understand the desire to make this happen I imagine a group of people being chased by a mountain lion, but if I make it to the goal first I won't get eaten. Just don't ask me why the mountain lion no longer hungers for me once I've crossed the finish line.

Sprinting wasn't B's absolute favorite, especially on the shorter races. The longer races seemed to be a better fit (like once or twice around the track). He did well, but suffered from shin splints.

During the summer one friend talked him into trying cross country running. He enjoyed it enough to decide on abandoning the sprinters and joining the long distance runners in track this year (and yes, there IS a difference between cross country and track). This is where we get in to the best part of our post.

There is a mentally handicapped young man on the team this year. He wanted to join the same team as his big brother, a senior this year. The young man obviously can't run the long distances, but that hasn't stopped him from running. His event is the 100 meter dash.

The team has had about 5 track meets this year, and in every single one I have seen something that makes my heart absolutely sing. Our sweetheart of a young man stands ready at the starting line, grinning from ear to ear in anticipation of running another successful race. The official raises his hand while the other runners get into position, and then BANG! the gun goes off.

Lanes two through eight are quickly emptied as the other runners have crossed the finish line in mere seconds, while our young man pumps his legs as fast as they will allow. Along the way are each of his other teammates who are clapping and cheering him on every step of the way. Interspersed we see members of the other teams who begin to do the same. They pump their fists in the air, cheer at the top of their lungs, clap their hands to give encouragement. And the farther down the lane he goes, the louder they get, until a massive yell of triumph comes from the lungs of every person there. Parents and students alike from three different schools all come together to cheer for and encourage one young man.

It's pretty awesome.

Sometimes life is like finding a moment to cheer for every one's team. We tend to get separated into various groups whether at school, at work, at home, at church, whatever. Groups can easily get competitive, and if we're not careful, competitive can turn ugly. But every once in a while there's someone who is able to erase boundaries, make us look a little deeper within, and remember we're all on the same course in life, whether we realize it or not in the daily grind of living.

A Survivor of Abuse: Remembering

Years ago there was a commercial for a fast food restaurant that supposedly had such a good deal a person was willing to break open an adorable piggy bank just to get that food. There was a moment when the little piggy was hiding in a closet and the shadow of it's owner would come through the wooden slats, a hammer in hand, ready to destroy the precious little being in order to obtain some sort of wealth inside.

I hated that commercial.

Why did I hate that commercial?

As I look back over my life there have been obvious clues that there was something deep within the recesses of my mind I was so afraid of letting out. Of course it's so much easier to look back and see the pattern unfolding, than to try and make sense of it as it's happening.

About five years ago I was coming to a crossroads. Things were simply not right with me. Though my depression was a bit more under control, I felt more attacked mentally, emotionally and spiritually than ever before. I knew I need help, but not the usual doctor/counselor/therapist/medication sort of help. Everything in my mind kept screaming at me that I was nothing. Yet this didn't make sense because all I had been taught in church said I was of so much value.

A few months previous my parents had been introduced to energy work. This wasn't my own first experience with it as I had been using it to get rid of many of my allergies through NAET. What my mom and dad had found, however, was a whole different line of energy work. My mom had offered more than once to introduce me to Sue, and had offered to pay for my first visit as well. One afternoon I was so desperate for the inner voices to go away I finally called my mom and asked her to make me an appointment.

It was awesome. It was difficult. I felt like a little child in her hands, something delicate and afraid and hopeful and trusting. Near the end of our second session she was deeply concerned that I had so many doubts of being worthy of happiness. She could sense that deep down I absolutely did not believe I deserved a happy life. In another session she stopped me once and said, "What happened when you were three?" I thought this particularly odd because only two years before my NAET doctor had asked me the same thing when realizing there was something that happened to me at the age of three that was keeping me from healing. 

"We moved to a new house," I told her. 

"Did you ever suffer any abuse?" she asked.

I answered with full confidence, "No." She sat there and stared at me, a subtle notion of I'm so sorry for what you're about to go through on her face.

Two different people asking me the same thing. What happened when I was three? I had no memory of anything bad happening. We had moved to a new house close to where I live now. We were there until I was about eight and we moved again. My best friend lived across the street, and my older brother's best friend lived two houses down (I always thought of him as my boyfriend).

One night as I had been pondering on so much I was in bed and a thought came out of absolutely nowhere. "I wonder if the reason I can't lay on my back is because he was so heavy." I've never been able to lay down on my back. I would get dizzy and disoriented and unable to breathe. I always thought it had to do with a nerve in my back that would somehow pinch. Not anymore.

I began to sob, gut wrenching, soul crushing sobs. I was afraid of waking up my husband so I went into our living room. I sat on the floor in front of our couch and pressed my face into the cushion to muffle the crying. 

I had to be making this up.

No way could this be real.

How could I have forgotten?????

After an hour I went to Facebook and not so subtly asked if it was possible to have forgotten something so horrible for so many years. The answers were a resounding YES! Many brave women came forward and told me they too had repressed those memories. I was grateful for their courage, but I hated the truth forced on me.

Still I didn't believe. The next morning was Sunday. The moment I saw my bishop and my husband I asked for a priesthood blessing. We went into the bishop's office where he asked what was going on. I told them, so afraid to look my spouse in the eyes. What if he didn't believe me? 

They placed their hands on my head and gave me a blessing from my Heavenly Father. I immediately felt peace, and was told in no uncertain terms that it was real, and it was time to start healing.

I have no doubt there is a time for everything, and in that moment I knew my body and my mind were ready to begin dealing with the horrors forced on me when I was too weak to fight back. That was when I realized why I hated that fast food commercial so much. For too long I was the little piggy bank, hiding in the closet, terrified of the shadow outside the door just waiting to take my wealth.

Life is Like...Sorting Socks

Have you ever had to sort socks? Have you ever had to sort socks for more than one person?

There are six people living in my little home. Six pair of feet to cover for seven days a week, especially in the winter months. In one week we can manage to dirty forty-two pair of socks. That's eighty-four individual socks. The individual number is important. I'll even tell you why.

I sat on my bed this morning with a laundry basket FULL of socks. They were mostly white socks, but a few colors were mixed in. I'm always grateful for the colors, they make matching socks so much easier.

Imagine this basket full of at least eighty-four individual socks (I say 'at least' because inevitably some have walked off leaving behind many that don't get to have a match). Some are for big feet, some are for slightly smaller feet. Some have the brand name printed along the toes, while others have darker shades along the heels. There are socks that will go up high on the leg, and those that love to snuggle your ankles. We have the special Daddy's socks, which are different from the boys', which are different from the girls', which are different from Mom's socks.

All in all, there are a whole lot of socks.

As I sorted these various feet coverings I began to wax philosophical (tends to happen when I've been in my head for too long), and it occurred to me that life really is like going through a basket chock full of socks.

All socks start their journey by coming out of a package. They are pristine. The whites are as white as they will ever be. Colors are vibrant. Patterns are clear. Even the threads are undamaged and identical socks can be doubled up with any that look just like it. We are much the same way.

Until, of course, the inevitable happens and someone puts their feet into the socks. Some are worn on the right foot, some on the left. Some are worn outside without shoes on, while others are constantly covered. At times these socks will go to scout camp, where I am convinced the dirt in these boy-concentrated places has a special bond that mixes so completely with the socks that it never, ever, EVER comes out, no matter what magical incantations I might employ to make said socks look clean. Then there are those times the socks are not turned right side out before they are washed (no matter how many times I tell them to please please please turn them right side out before putting them in their laundry hampers!), meaning the dirt, which sticks more to the outside then the inside, often remains on the outside. I do not understand the logic of this, seeing as how all the stinky from the inside of the sock is washed out even if the sock itself hasn't been turned inside out.

After months and months of being worn, and washed, and worn, and washed, and...you get the idea...socks start to look less than pristine. In our house they begin to get those annoying little balls that get bigger and bigger until you actually sit down to tear them off. Of course these annoying little balls are bits of your sock slowly fraying, thinning them out until you can actually see parts of your skin. Hopefully those parts of skin are beautiful, rather than dry and crackly.

Eventually even the most beloved sock gets holes in them. Back in the "good old days" people used to darn their socks. No, that doesn't mean they would shake their fists at it and say, "Darn you!" It means they would take thread and painstakingly attempt to fix those holes. We don't do that any more, for which I am grateful. I think my family would decide going sockless to be a beautiful thing if I made them wear the ones I attempted to darn.

If you're anything like my husband getting rid of something that has a few holes in it is tossing out the most comfortable item of clothing in the world. Those are always, in his own words, "MY FAVORITE!!!" Silly boy. Still, every sock eventually comes to the point where it has to go away. Sometimes because it is worn out, others times because gremlins crept into the laundry basket and stole unmatched pairs, and no matter how long you keep a hold of those single-but-unable-to-mingle items, the gremlins refuse to grow a conscience and return their matches. Then comes the day you finally get rid of the singles, only to do a more thorough cleaning of your room and find the match behind your dresser. You'd think by now I'd have learned to look there first.

Over time sorting similar socks even becomes difficult, because I try my best to sort socks into similar pair of dirtiness. I think I might OCD.

Believe it or not, life is often like this. Um, not like me having OCD, but like being a sock.

We are all born into this world coming from the same package - that is, heaven. Some of us look so much alike we could be interchangeable (though I don't recommend proving it!). We are vibrant, unmarked, clear, and whole.

Then life starts. We are placed into different families and circumstances that stretch us in different ways. We are taken through various experiences that make us more individual than we were at birth. Some of those experiences are pretty stinky, some leave marks we can't seem to get rid of, while others others allow us to live good, long lives filled with amazing memories. At times we believe our perfect match has been stolen, but then realize we were meant for another pairing. We may begin life with many friends with which we can be interchangeable, then over time we recognize there are only a few we really want to match with.

Some individuals wear out fast, but are fixed along the way, helping them to last longer. Others feel they are past fixing, or refuse to be fixed. The best people are those who have worn out their lives making the lives of others a bit more comfortable, who will be missed horribly when they are called home to their Maker.

Bet you can't wait until I come up with another thing life is like ;)

What's in a Name Change?

Okay, I know, it's been over a year since I last wrote. You know those words, "There is a time for everything", well, the last few years have definitely NOT been a time for blog posting. It's not that I haven't had things to write about. There simply wasn't enough 'time', nor energy for that matter.

During my Sunday meeting with the women of my local congregation, we discussed a recent talk given by the president of our church, Russel M. Nelson. In this talk he was directing us to stop utilizing the more common nicknames of our church, and go back to the direct name given through inspiration to the first prophet of this dispensation: the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

The discussion prompted by this talk among my sisters in church was awesome. Ideas were shared, answers were given, and we were all agreed this wasn't a major, life-changing event. Regardless, it's important.

In the culture of our religion we had taken on many nicknames: LDS, Latter-day Saints, The Church, and Mormons. Every single one of these names excluded the very person we claim to worship with all our hearts, minds, and bodies. The name of Jesus Christ.

President Nelson said, "To remove the Lord’s name from the Lord’s Church is a major victory for Satan. When we discard the Savior’s name, we are subtly disregarding all that Jesus Christ did for us—even His Atonement."

When I first heard the words a major victory for Satan I sat back, stunned. I began to think about how happy it really must make Satan to take out the very name of the individual he most hates. Of course he would want to subtly lead us down a path that would keep us from using His name. Tiny little acts like these, that to us may seem vastly unimportant, place us on a road that will separate us from our Lord. And one day we will look back and wonder why we feel so far from Him.

This is why we need individuals like our dear prophet, who gives us firm, loving reminders to correct our course while the going is still easy. Something as simple as remembering to whom this gospel belongs, and being willing to make the little changes necessary to keep on His path.

I knew I needed to change the name of this blog, but I was slow in getting to it, simply because my time has been needed by other things. Fortunately my Savior is patient, and gives me even more reminders like going back over this awesome talk.

I am not a Mormon. I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I am going to be more vigilant in making sure I use the correct name of the church I believe the Savior restored upon this blessed earth.

If you would like to read the talk by President Nelson following this link: "The Correct Name of the Church".

To Stand or Kneel

For the last couple of years the high school at which I work as a lunch lady has had a wonderful project to help the students and even faculty get to know one another better and to take a moment to see things from someone else's point of view.

It's called "Swap a Heart". Everyone gets a t-shirt to decorate any way they want, hopefully relating to the short essay they are encouraged to write. It is hoped one will write about something they are passionate about, that makes them tick. I'd like to share what I wrote and painted here:

For a little over a year now I have taken time to observe the faculty and students at ______ High School. Working in the lunchroom doesn’t give me a chance to observe them in the classrooms, but seeing them wander by, wander in, and wander through the lunchroom has had me thinking about one thing in particular: the observance of the Pledge of Allegiance.

One particular co-worker of mine is crazy into scouting. She has worked with the cub scouts for possibly more years than I have been alive. When I first came here about five years ago I marveled as she paused every morning to place her hand over her heart and recited the Pledge. Every morning! It brought home to me my own lack of respect when it came to what the Pledge of Allegiance meant to me.

In the years since I have only seen one young man stop on his way to class (even though he was late) to place his hand over his heart, face toward the flag, and recite the Pledge. One young man. That’s it. I became saddened. It takes a minute at most, yet no one else has done the same.

In recent months a popular protest amongst Americans is to kneel during the Pledge of Allegiance and the singing of the National Anthem. I have been struggling to understand why, in particular because the things they are protesting for are the very things the National Anthem, the flag, and the Pledge stand for. In my mind these individuals were disrespecting the very things this land was dedicated toward preserving.

Most of the time I find social media difficult to stomach, as people far and wide have decided it’s the best place to lay out their every opinion, whether it’s warranted or not. I was grateful for it in the last few weeks, however, as I was given a small insight into the reasoning behind those who kneel.

The reasons came down to one simple thing: hope. Hope for something better. We are a nation of individuals who hope for more than the lot we have been given in life.

Hope for freedom to walk down the street without fear.

Hope that our words can and will make a difference somewhere.

Hope that as we go about our daily lives there will be those who see us, our needs, our fears, and our courage.

Hope that if we did not start our lives in America, we can make more of our lives here.

Hope that the color of our skin, our hair, or our eyes will not make people uncomfortable, but embraceable.

 Hope that when someone looks our way the state of our smile will be more important than the state of our clothes, our car, or our home.

Hope that our children will grow up to be the leaders who will make the changes necessary to allow our hopes to become reality.

And when our hope feels frail, as though the fires have been trampled to the point where even the embers are unseen, that is when we kneel. That is when we take the broken and shattered pieces of our hope and place them at the feet of God, in whom we trust.

This we do in the hopes that one day He will heal our hope enough that we can see ourselves stand once more, hands over our hearts, one nation under His protection and guidance, whole again.

The Impressions We Leave Behind

This weekend, being the LDS Church's annual General Conference, is one of the busiest for my husband. He helps to cook the food for all the Church leaders who meet to speak and teach, for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir who performs, and for the audio/visual and security and all the others who work behind the scenes for two incredibly busy days.

That's a whole lot of people to feed.

Some people volunteer to be on the serving lines and help to clean up. One such woman took a look at my husband as he made the rounds and said, "I just love your wife." He had never met this woman before and couldn't understand how she knew we were married.

Come to find out she was a friend of mine from high school. We latched on to one another early on in our Freshman year. I remember loving her long, blond hair and bubbly laugh. I remember us walking down the hall one day and saying in a seriously cheesy teenage tone, "Hi Jared" to a boy we both thought was cute. I remember laughter and tears, and most of all love.

When my husband asked what I was like in high school, I don't think she could recall much more than I did, only to say, "I just know when she was around everything was happier. She made life fun." My friend also remembered me being there while her parents were going through a divorce.

Those words of hers meant a lot to me, especially as I've been doing some serious soul-searching the last few weeks. Being a Relief Society President in a ward (basically the leader over the women of our local congregation) requires things, and some of those things do not come naturally. For me, it's getting out of my house and going visiting. Some of you may think, "That's not so hard." Others (fellow introverts unite!) may be mentally patting me on the back in understanding.

There is a huge emotional block when it comes to placing myself in the personal space of others. I begin to psych myself out with thoughts of people not wanting me to visit them, to call, to ask about their personal life. Yet common sense tells me that's exactly where I am supposed to go and what I am supposed to do. I watch as my counselors are easily able to accomplish precisely what I am so unwilling to do, and then begin chastising myself for not being like them.

During the different General Conference sessions the last two days, I have been given insight into what I need to do in order to overcome this. The answers came from three different speakers, but the messages all came together for me.

1. Look up. When I am busy hanging my head in fear and disappointment in myself, look up. Therein lies the Light of Christ. Therein sits the goal of who I want to become and what Heavenly Father needs me to be. I must look up in order to get up and move forward.

2. Stretch a little farther. Just as the woman with an issue of blood had to stretch in order to touch the hem of the Savior in full faith that she would be healed, I need to stretch a little farther to fulfill my calling of looking after the sisters of the ward. The Savior will reach out to help me along that path, but I also have to reach out to Him, knowing He will help me push past this block.

3. Fear and faith cannot reside side-by-side. I know this. I really do know this, and I am getting better at putting aside fear and stepping forward in faith. It is simply time for me to put into practice the things I know. Fear is crippling, and for some reason it runs deep through the lines of my father's family. Breaking the chains takes putting faith into action.

4. I am not meant to be the leaders before me. It's one of the hardest things for any leader to shake off - the ghosts of those who came before. Relief Society leaders hold this position for about 3 years, sometimes more or less. When I look into the room on Sunday it is filled with women who have been where I now stand, and I cannot imagine how I am supposed to live up to their legacies. Today I was told I don't have to. I have my own purpose, and it is to love in the best ways I know how.

I thought about the impressions I left with this friend of mine from over 20 years ago, just as she left her impressions with me. I began to think about what sort of impressions I want to leave with the sisters, and I decided that if I can leave them with similar feelings as I did with my friend, then I have done good. This means make them laugh, let them think of love, and be there when they need a shoulder to cry on.

Two Years and a Lot of Changes

It's been almost two whole years since the beginning of another new journey, one that has taken me down roads I never thought I'd travel. One thing I discovered about getting rid of false ideals that have taken years to pile on, they don't disappear in one go. As I peeled off a few layers of lies, the forgotten truths that first created those lies reared up biting.

WARNING: If any of you find child abuse to be a trigger, please don't keep reading. Please.

It was the same night that I wrote about in my last post. I was still flying high from the peace I felt when I went to bed. I have always been a side or stomach sleeper. Always. Laying on my back, even in the dentist's chair, makes me dizzy and sick to my stomach. That night I happened to think about this silly fact when these words popped into my mind: "Maybe I can't sleep on my back because I couldn't breathe when he would lay on me." Just like that I couldn't breathe. Just like that I was curled up in a ball biting back sobs so I wouldn't wake my husband.

When I gained enough control over myself I crept into the living room to sit on the floor, rock, cry, and pray. I don't know how long I was there. It doesn't really matter. The next day was Sunday. The moment I was able to get a hold of my husband and my bishop at the church building I asked for a blessing. I was numb for a good while.

The next night I sat on our back porch, grateful the kids were gone that evening to various friends' houses. Instead of putting down negative thoughts about myself I began a tirade of angry words at this man (a neighbor). I filled pages and pages until I couldn't write much more. The words most penned - I was just a little girl.

At last I ran out of steam, no more room to be angry...for the moment. It was then more words came to my mind. Be gentle. You have no idea how he was abused as a child. Though I cannot explain it, I knew with absolute certainty that whatever he had done to me and other children in our neighborhood was nothing compared to what his own father had done to him over years and years. This knowledge was placed into my head because in that moment I had a choice. I could either choose to dwell in the misery and anger this new found truth brought, or I could choose to forgive with the understanding that even as it would set me free, one day this man would have a reckoning with his Savior.

Being who I am, I chose forgiveness. What surprised me was the healing it brought when it came to how I thought of myself. I had spent years trying to understand why I always felt like a dirty, sinful creature. I would mentally beat myself up for things I didn't even understand. There was this lie so deeply etched in my child's mind that if something was wrong I couldn't tell anyone. Especially my parents, because my parents would be so mad at me. Looking back on my life, on the things I kept reprimanding myself for, they were due to the false beliefs this man forced on me. I didn't want to live those lies any more.

One day during that week I took some time and attended one of our temples. I prayed. Oh how I prayed. Near the end of my time there an answer came in the form of a scripture:

"That ye might be sanctified from all sin."

To be sanctified means to be cleansed, not only just the body but the spirit as well. If I was to move forward and find happiness and light and become the person my Heavenly Father saw, I needed to be cleansed in both body and spirit. That is what I worked on for a good year.

Memories popped up now and again. Some were horrific, others were fairly benign. Yet they each held the emotions of that little girl as she experienced them. I dealt with panic attacks, yet was blessed that I was still able to work through it all. I received counseling from a man who was definitely guided by the Spirit as to how to help me best.

I have to credit my amazing parents. They had no idea what was going on, but they gave me a home full of love and the gospel of Jesus Christ. I was safe there. I have no doubt that made all the difference.

Since that time other major changes happened, changes that needed me to be much more whole. Our ward (local congregation) and another ward that meets in our same building had both been struggling for years for enough people to fulfill the necessary positions. Church officials on a higher level counseled together and decided to combine our congregations. When our new bishop was called, he asked me to be the Relief Society President - I was now to watch over more than 300 women in our new ward. I have two counselors and a secretary with whom I work.

Yet I still feel as though I'm not enough. I can't seem to get to everybody to talk and chat and visit with. In the almost one year we've been together my presidency and others have overseen more than 14 funeral luncheons. Being a part-time worker and a full time wife and mom doesn't leave a ton of time to do everything I want to do, and I can feel those ugly lies trying to take hold again.

If I had not been awakened to what happened all those years ago, if I had not let go of all those lies, my ability to function in this position would have had me drowning. Instead I am treading water with a life jacket on. My Savior will not let me drown.

It's been two years since I last wrote, but it's been an amazing two years.

Day 2 of The Negative Thought Purge

Yesterday I went to see Sue, though not for me. This was the second visit for my daughter, M, who is also in need of some healing of the mind, body and spirit. I was definitely meant to be there with them both, as things took place to make a major shift in my knowledge of what's going on in my family. It also lead me to understand more the power of forgiveness. More on that later.

After last night's purge I felt better than the day before. So much so that when I sat down to write my negative thoughts it was difficult to come up with them. Instead of having a bunch of murky, nasty, vindictive, untrue statements flow easily from my mind I found myself feeling more contemplative. The bad beliefs went deeper and were harder to come up with. Why?

I truly believe it's because under the surface of all that negativity I had to fight to find the lies. Truth is beginning to resurface. There is the Light of Christ shining through again, though there is a lot of work yet to be done and a lot more healing to experience.

The first day I managed to fill almost all three pages. This time around I barely managed a page and a half. I probably could have done more but my spirit was too busy being filled with the beauty of watching the clouds roll quickly across the sky, flowing from one vibrant color to another as the sun settled behind the western mountains.I believe when I prayed for all the empty spots that had been occupied with the icky, murky, nasty thoughts that had taken root to instead be filled with peace, there was nowhere for nastiness to settle back in.

The peace and love of our Savior is truly incredible.

The overlying feeling left with my spirit was one of forgiveness. Forgiveness of others and of myself. So long as I held on to all of those negative beliefs there was no way I could forgive anyone, least of all imperfect me. If I can't forgive myself how can I possibly forgive others?

Forgiveness is freeing. It lightens the soul and gives room for peace. The natural man doesn't want to forgive. It wants to hold tight to grievances and grudges. That's not how the Savior works. He doesn't want to see us live that way. He wants us to be happy, even if we don't believe we can ever experience it, or deserve it.

Challenge for day 2 of your negative thought purge. After you've written down all of those negative thoughts for a second day in a row, pray for the spaces to be filled with peace and forgiveness. Even if you can't believe it'll make a difference, trust in the Savior.

The Power of a Thought

In the last few weeks I've started to visit with an energy healer. I won't go into why at the moment, but yesterday's visit got me thinking about the power of thoughts.

Sue, my practitioner, told me it takes just as much energy to think of something positive as it does to think of something negative. Yet we always tend to gravitate toward thinking negatively, especially about ourselves. As I pondered this thought, I realized just how damaging or healing that one choice can be: will I tell myself something negative or something positive?

I hold deep within my mind and heart a lot - and I really do mean a LOT - of negative beliefs about myself. They all run along the lines of not being enough. For anyone. I'm not smart enough, pretty enough, funny enough, serious enough, rich enough, poor enough, outgoing enough, quiet enough, loud enough, fast enough, thin enough, social enough, religious enough, service-oriented enough, energetic enough...and the list goes on and on. Because of all these negative thoughts I've told myself and allowed others to tell me and convinced myself it's what people were saying to/about me I no longer exist. Not as I once was.

With every negative thought I gave away a tiny slice of my personal power. I now feel broken in my spirit, my mind and my body. I don't even believe I'm worth putting back together - and that's a very difficult thing to admit, because I thoroughly believe everyone else in this world is worth fixing. So why not me?

Sue gave me some homework for the next seven days. I am to find a quiet spot, I am to start with a prayer, and then I am to take three blank pages and begin writing down every negative belief I have about myself. Not holding back. Just let it all out. When I was done I was NOT to go back and reread it, but to crumple it up and either burn the pages or throw them away. After those seven days I am supposed to do the opposite. I am to take three blank pages and begin writing down every positive thing about myself - even if I don't necessarily believe it. I can write things others have said about me if I can't think of anything myself, just as long as they are positive I AM statements.

I began my first list of negative things tonight. To be honest I didn't think I'd be able to write much. Once the words got going I couldn't stop. I had no idea I believed so many bad things about myself!  After half an hour my mind was exhausted. I had filled up a lot more of those three pages than I thought I could, and I felt...better. It was as though a huge weight had been lifted off my heart. As I'd been instructed I didn't read over what I'd written. Instead the papers were promptly crumpled up and I threw them away. Since my mind felt empty of all negativity I figured it might be a good idea to finish the assignment with a prayer, asking only for the empty spots to be filled with peace.

I cried through most of that purge. It was interesting to see which thoughts caused me the most pain to write. Those thoughts, those beliefs about myself, they were the most telling. It's taken many years of negative thinking for me to get this bad, therefore I know it will take quite some time to reverse the damage done. Right now my biggest hope is to feel as though I am worth fixing - feel this so intensely I actually believe it! So that when I wake up in the morning telling myself I can and will live life in abundance it won't feel like a lie.

Thoughts are powerful. They can make or break a person. Consider what you tell yourself every day. One of the happiest and loveliest women I know weighs over 300 pounds, but constantly tells herself how awesome she is - AND SHE IS!!! She truly believes it and after being told so many times over, we all believe it too.

The next time you feel as though you are drowning in negative thoughts, I encourage you to write them all down. Purge your mind of them. Then throw the papers away. Pray for peace to fill those empty spaces and begin trading those negative thoughts for positive. I'd love to hear how it changes your own lives!

Rediscovering My Voice

Medically there was nothing wrong. My thyroid was normal. There was nothing swollen or out of place. No abnormal growth of cells to explain away the feeling there was something unusual in my neck. Everything was fine. Everything except this uncomfortable feeling that something...something wasn't fine.

I would lay down at night and find it difficult to breathe, as though a ball had been inserted into my neck. I could still breathe, of course, otherwise I wouldn't be writing to you today, but it wasn't with the ease I had previously experienced. I went in for testing. I was now the proud owner of a cpap machine to help me at night. The only problem - I still felt some sort of blockage.

I am a big supporter of what has been termed "Western" and "Holistic" medicine. It's no secret I love to use essential oils, as those are the medicines God originally placed on the earth to help us in the first place. I also believe God has inspired men and women to bring about the extraordinary methods to help treat illnesses in these modern times, and to dismiss them isn't respecting what God has put in place. I believe there is a beautiful middle where both can be used to the sufferer's benefit.

This last year I have been introduced to different types - modalities - of energy healing. I had no idea how many types there were. It came through my parents' introducing me to the "Emotion Code". From there I have attempted some research and even went to a conference about energy healing. In the last few weeks I came to realize the block in my neck is an emotional block. Specifically, the emotion of being silenced.

I don't care for the imagery and feelings that come with the term "chakras" as it's been mystified and corrupted over thousands of years. There is, unfortunately, no other ways to term the energy pathways of the body. It's certainly not a new concept, not for me. I'd dealt with similar things when I did allergy elimination. In different areas of the body there are different energy centers. Because my block appeared in my neck, I knew it was my voice that had been silenced.

I went to see a woman recently who works on chakras, as well as other things. She told me many things, much of which made a whole lot of sense about different things I'd been dealing with as she explained them, including the block in my neck. The biggest way to fix them? Take back my personal power.

Sounds cheesy, doesn't it? I had to take a long, prayerful look at the last few years to see where exactly I had lost my way. With the guidance of Heavenly Father I began to see little choices I had made to let others dictate what was good or bad for me, and about me. This even included the members of my own family, though none of it was intentional. I began to see with spiritual eyes that the person God needed me to become was being lost in what everyone else thought I ought to become. Deep within myself was the unaccountable knowledge that I did not have enough confidence in myself and the inspirations of the Lord in regards to His plans for me to do what I knew to be right. Instead I would cave in to what others felt was more important.

Over the last month I have worked hard to recognize these little choices. I have been asserting my own needs and desires. I have even spoken up instead of backing down when certain people have stated things I knew was not right. One funny thing occurred after my first session - my singing voice started to return. I haven't been able to sing with power in so long I thought my voice damaged. In a way it was.

It's been over a year since I last posted here. It's not for a lack of trying. No matter how much preparation I would do, what time of day I would sit down to write, nothing would come out. Ideas and thoughts would flow through my mind at hurricane speed, demanding an outlet. Not a word could be typed, because my voice was blocked.

This post right here, it's a huge step. My wishes and desires to voice my own opinions and beliefs feel like a reality now, rather than a dream. I am once more making an effort to keep my power where it belongs. With me.

Feeling Adequate at Best

The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines adequate as "enough for some need or requirement: good enough: of a quality that is good or acceptable."

Lately I feel less than adequate. Doesn't matter what part of my life we're discussing. Could be work. Could be home. Could be Mom. Could be Wife. Could be daughter of God. Could be grocery shopper. Could be nail trimmer. Doesn't matter.

Certainly my role as blog-writer has suffered as I've tried to stretch myself to play a bazillion different roles. The only problem is a person can only be stretched so far. My brain feels like a giant ball of mush these days. Trying to put connecting sentences together to create a post longer than a status update via Facebook makes my head hurt. Literally. I go into a fog and the next thing I know I've deleted the blog post because I just can't do it. Which breaks my heart as being a writer has been a dream of mine since I was a little girl.

Yet I continue to fight that word: adequate. Good enough. But nothing to cheer about. I read of how families are going to Disneyland (seemingly every one's favorite way to spend their tax return). How people are having their next book published. How they are able to do this and that and this and that and I...am adequate.

Okay so I really do know I'm more than adequate. In many ways I'm so stinking awesome you could hardly stand to be around me. Except you wouldn't want to walk away from my awesomeness regardless of how stinking I might prove to be.

It's so easy to sit and compare ourselves to others. We've never been able to take our kids to Disneyland, but we've always had enough to keep ourselves going. We find ways of having fun times that don't include long lines and going into debt. Though we still would like to try and take the kids one day. I may not have published anything officially, but my writings have blessed the lives of the young women for whom I've put stories together for their girls camps. 

The most extraordinary thing I have done with my life can be seen in the walls of my home. I have four beautiful children who, despite my best efforts, are turning out to be fairly normal and moderately happy. I have a husband whom I adore and, regardless of how crazy or adequate I am, seems to love me right back. Best of all there is a spirit of love in this home that cannot be denied by any who enter in. This home is a little slice of heaven on earth. Well, at times it's more earthy than heavenly, but there really is no place I'd rather be.

I had to remind myself that there are times my "best" is going to be awesome. I'm talking awesomely awesome. Like I could leap tall buildings in a single bound. Other days my "best" is going to be crawling over ant hills (minuscule ant hills) and then taking a nap because that took all my energy. Either way my "best" is the best I can give, and both are okay.

I've struggled this last month. More than I thought I would. My oldest son would have been 14 this year - it's a key age in my church. It hurt, so much. And then four - yes, FOUR - people I loved with all my heart died within a week. I shattered, and trying to glue myself back together has been impossible. 

Yes, I know death is not the end. Yes, I know I will see them and hug them all again. Yes, I know the Atonement of Christ means He knows exactly how I'm feeling and will help me through it all. I know He is my glue. I know He is my carpenter, my Healer, my Brother. But the ache that's left behind when I can't hold them here and now remains.

I received a priesthood blessing tonight from my husband and my daddy. How grateful I am that they are always ready and willing to do so for me. And that my Heavenly Father loves me despite my inaccurate feelings of being less than adequate.

My shoulders feel lighter. Nothing has changed, except my attitude. Which is the most important and most effective change. Especially when it comes as a blessing from up above. And while life may still find me feeling adequate while my Brother and I continue to put me back together, at least I know my best is my best and that's okay.

Stay Strong and Carry On: Maile Tua'one

She's the girl on the very left. Do you see her? Of course you do. You can't help yourself. There's something in the way she smiles, a secret kept in the corner of her gorgeous eyes that makes you wish you knew what she knew.

"Go ahead and take my picture," she says, a half-laugh on her lips. "See me," she says, even though the photos are a mere echo of the beauty that sits before you. "Love me," she whispers, not a command, but rather an invitation, as though in those two words a world of unbelievable joy can be opened up before your own eyes. A world you would never have seen or felt without her. "Let me love you," she breathes, and in that one breath you know that being loved by Maile will be one of the greatest blessings of your life.

 The last time I really got to see Maile Tua'one, see her, laugh with her, love her, was at our church Christmas party in early December. She and a cousin were playing the part of the most gorgeous Santa Helpers of all time and I had the chance to MC the night. For those who knew Maile it will come as no surprise that she made the night fun. She made it magical. She brought laughter and love to the evening.

Maile died this last Sunday, late in the night. She was with a friend when her car ended up with a flat tire. Her friend got out to change the tire and she stood by his side the entire time. Which was just like her. She was always by your side. Watching over you. Watching with you. Giving very unhelpful pointers but making you love every word of advice.


 When Maile loved - and she loved everyone!...almost - it was with her whole heart. She was a little girl in a woman's body. Very little made her more happy than to dress up in her "real clothes", her Princess clothes.

And if she could find other little girls play princess with her, well, all the better. Because in those few moments shared Maile could explain to each and every little girl that they too were real-life princesses, pretending to be "regular people" in life so everyone else wouldn't have to be too jealous. In her eyes every girl deserved to be treated like royalty, and expected the men in her life to act accordingly. More often than not, they did.



Maile had the heart of an artist. One small doodle turned into a masterpiece. She lived life. She loved life. She was terrified of life. She saw it in vivid color, every swirl, every detail, down to the little things the rest of us take for granted. When we would try to go from point A to point B we knew we'd meet her there, but that she'd be five hours later. Why? Because our straight line was nothing like for her. The twists and turns and stops along the way made the way sweeter, made it worth every moment in her goal to reach B. Only B wasn't her ultimate goal - enjoying the ride, that's what mattered.

"trapped like a bird in the chaos of her own mind. inspiration strikes randomly when contemplating certain people and ideas I can't seem to escape from. I may not know what I'm doing most of the time but I sure do make it look good" ~ Maile Tua'one

Look at those eyes. Look at that half-smile. She knew what it meant to embrace everything good in this life. She's been taken from us here on earth, but her soul is flying now. Higher than she's ever gone before. She's still loving us, as we're still loving her, only she's gone on to love so many more, hand-in-hand with her daddy. Gonna miss you Miss Miles. There is no one else in this world like you. Stop by and visit every once in a while, but be the best missionary you can be on the other side.

Stay Strong and Carry On

Words she shared.

Words she lived.

Patrick Stewart on Violence Against Women/Children

Raising My Garden of Children

Another school year is coming to a close. Normally I'm excited too usher in the summer, as it means having my kids nearby so we can try playing in the warmer weather.

This year feels rather bittersweet, however, as I am realizing just how quickly my children have grown. Starting next year one will be in high school, one in middle school, and the other two still in elementary.

I know it was bound to happen. After all, I'm no longer wearing diapers. Still, today my reality of raising a family boils down to this: it is so fleeting. I can still recall bringing home my daughter from the hospital, so shocked and amazed something that beautiful lived inside of me. Now she's talking of getting a summer job, what she wants to be when she grows up, what college she'd like to attend, if she'll go on a mission, and what sort of a mom she hopes to be. I think about how old she is and suddenly I want to stick her back on my lap and rock her to sleep. She could accomplish all of this in the next five years!

I had to drop J off at school early this morning as he needed finish up a report. He gave me a quick hug before heading off along the school lawn and all I could do was watch. Watch and sit in awe at the amazing young man he's become. I recalled how often his dad and I despaired thinking he'd struggle with school his whole life because he couldn't sit still long enough in class to get anything done. Yet there he was, taking responsibility for his work by getting to school early so he might attain a good grade. He has become so dependable and dedicated, which at times boggles my mind. J, above any of the kids, is our reader. He will gobble up a book in no time flat.


It never occurred to me that Mr. B wouldn't do well in school. What has surprised me is to know he's not still in preschool, my baby-faced partner in crime who never wanted to leave home and would only leave my side because I gave him a key chain with a picture of the two of us in it. Now he's riding his bike all over the place, more excited to be with friends than at home. He's excelling in many things and loves to torture his siblings. He'd definitely still rather be at home than at school, but only if he has a brother or sister to keep him entertained (I'm not quite enough any more).

And then there's this blue-eyed beauty. She absolutely takes my breath away - partly because she never stops talking. I remember not being sure if I was ready to have one more child. Our other kids were growing up, we were able to do an awful lot now that diaper bags and infant car seats were no longer a part of the mix. Yet how could life have been worth it without this little bundle of rowdy, chattering joy? Her birthday comes late in the school year, and I worried she might not be able to handle the social aspect of being in school (she's not quite queen bee there as she tries to be at home). Not only has she been an amazing influence on the other children around her, but she has excelled intellectually as well. Her mind knows no bounds and she almost reads better than many kids several years older. There is no doubt in my mind she needed to come when she did, and that she was prepared for life as the youngest with a feisty will and an attitude that knows no bounds.

These are my flowers in the garden of our home. At times I feel as though the world is passing me by, especially when I see the grand accomplishments of others around me. When I begin to wonder "what could have been" I am promptly reminded by the Holy Spirit that I am doing precisely what the Lord needs me to do in the here and now: raise these little (and not so little) ones to not only shine and blossom and allow others to enjoy their beauty, but to make certain they are strong enough to withstand the storms and droughts of life. At times they may wither, and for a winter's season they may hide away, but there is always a spring just around the corner and the promise of newer, more beautiful ways to bloom.