Mother of four boys, aged 5 to 16. I suffer from depression and anxiety, and I have ADHD. Writing about my thoughts and experiences helps me to process through them and connect with others who resonate with the things I have to say. I always find my thoughts returning to my Savior and Redeemer of my Soul. He has led me through my recovery journey and I depend on him every day to help me through. As I feel his love and speak of his healing, my own burdens are lifted. Even so, the depression continues, and probably always will, which is why I will always be his broken-hearted hand-maiden.
“I form the light and create darkness: I make peace and create evil…”
Isaiah 45:7
For my mother who pushed me to the edge. My father who said, “Fly!” And my beloved who helped me open my wings.
Chapter 1 Part 1
First
They offered her freedom
From the hell of her own making.
Then they gave her knowledge
Of good and evil…
July 16, 2015
Though the path be lonely Follow your heart.
Though the path be dark There is light in your heart.
“Look, Dear!” Mother cried. “It says right here that Jesus died for our sins! Isn’t that wonderful!” “Mommy? What is a sin?” “Well a sin is all the bad things you are going to do when you grow up, Dear!” (But Mommy I’m a good girl. Daddy tells me so.)
If ever there was a kid who needed therapy—— “Get in the car.” (Slam door…
I’ve become fairly comfortable with expressing my opinions online. There are some of my relationships that have suffered because of that. I’m working through the messy process of helping others to understand my motivations and also taking their perspective about how and why what I post can be so uncomfortable for them. I try to be sensitive to the privacy concerns of friends and family, but at some point I have to allow people to own their own feelings about what I write. The letting go of the need for universal acceptance and validation is an important part of my growth. When I’m by myself, that is easier to do.
Out in public, in face to face interactions, I am less secure. Yesterday, we recorded our Christmas songs from last semester in the belly of the great Meyerson Concert Hall. It was a grueling twelve hour day of standing, singing, waiting, and occasional socializing. I felt distance from some people and I knew that those people were probably uncomfortable with some of my posts. That is unsurprising as I post pretty controversial stuff. It’s hard for me to feel the gaze of judgemental acquaintances and strangers and not feel shame.
Not everyone has responded negatively to my posting. In fact, I have developed some deep and meaningful relationships with several sisters in the choir from many different choral sections. That is a little unusual with a choir so large. I ate dinner with two of those women last night. We discussed the problematic polarization, the difficulty with political expression on social media, and the need for Americans to shed their party labels and focus on finding real solutions to the problems we face that we are all suffering from. The rising costs of prescription drugs, the problems in our schools, and the homeless who have insufficient protection from the cold weather are all issues that affect both democrats and republicans and that we can work together on if we stop demonizing one another. It was a good conversation. One woman whom I had just met sat at our table. She was pretty uncomfortable discussing politics at first, but even she warmed up and had some good observations to share. One of the things I noticed was her fear. Although she was intelligent and well informed with good ideas, she said she avoided political discussions because of their volatility. I wish such people did not feel obligated to be silent. We need more non-polarized, peacemaking voices if we are to recover as a nation.
As I listened to a podcast by Hidden Brain from NPR in the shower this morning. The podcast called, “Passion Isn’t Enough,” was all about how, for many Americans, politics has become a spectator sport that relies on entertainment, flashy national figures, and an over-reliance on national verses local politics. They analyzed the psychological reasons why it is easier, feels safer, and feels better to engage with politics in this way. It is also much more polarizing and much less effective than face to face local political involvement.
I asked myself some tough questions. Why do I follow politics? Do I really want change? If so, what is keeping me from being involved at the local level? Why don’t I attend the school board meetings? Why don’t I know my mayor’s name? What am I doing to show my local representatives that character matters to me, not just on the national level, but at the local level? Not just in government, but in all leadership? These are complicated questions and I’ll need to ponder on them further. My endless ruminating can make me feel so alone and isolated. My choice to stay at home and care for my young children has made it difficult to adequately meet my intellectual needs and find like minds. My willingness to engage online with uncomfortable issues has allowed me to have more meaningful face to face interactions and better meet my own intellectual needs.
My blog has been such a useful way for me to share thoughts and feelings and find needed support. I hope it has been useful to others as well. For those who question my motives, please understand that mental health blogs are a thing. There are actually a lot of mental health blogs online. People with mental and emotional illness or who support those who have it have found that sharing strategies and experiences with one another reduces the isolation and hopelessness that come with the stigma and the burden of caring for those who suffer. This sharing is healthy and young people especially are more comfortable with talking about these issues and being open about them. My older readers might not understand why I am posting or see my posts as evidence that I am in a very bad place. It may be hard for older readers to see the value of sharing things that used to be kept secret. I understand your concerns.
I am under the care of competent licensed mental health professionals who are confident that I am not a danger to myself or others. My depression is a difficult condition to manage, but I hope my readers will not worry needlessly about me when I have a bad day or post something negative. Please don’t feel obligated to check on me through relatives. I will be fine. If you are concerned about me or anything that I write, please message me and I will get back with you. My counselor and my psychiatrist have both encouraged me in my blogging seeing it as a healthy part of my recovery.
Mental health problems are rampant. I feel it is vital for us to share what knowledge we have about mental health. There are many who cannot, for whatever reason, get the help they need. If you haven’t been in their shoes, you might have had to support someone who is. Perhaps you have a brother with bipolar who refuses to take his medication and shows up at your door needing a place to stay but you don’t have room to keep him long term. Maybe a friend is so depressed she can’t care for her baby. She’s afraid to go on medication because she is breastfeeding. These are common scenarios that anyone can find themselves in. If our social networks are full of false and harmful ideas about mental health, how can we support these people? How can we direct them to the resources they need to heal? We need to talk about these things. And not just online.
I know in my heart that to really make a difference, I need to resist the urge to think that expressing online is sufficient. I need to do the hard work and have some face to face interactions. That is going to be very uncomfortable for me. I hope that I can rise to this challenge. I hope that as I build relationships with other people of good will who are working to solve our problems that this will be the beginning of a powerful phase of my life.
In sacrament meeting this week I was sustained as the Relief Society Secretary. Yikes. This is going to require a new level of courage for me. It is also going to require a new level of emotional maturity. My weaknesses loom large in my mind as I think of what is being asked of me. Still, I know that with the Savior’s help, I can do everything that is required. I am so grateful for supportive friends, a wonderful husband, beautiful children, and the many opportunities that the Savior has put in my path to serve my brothers and sisters. I don’t need their universal approval to serve, I only need His call and His power which I will strive to be worthy of every day.
Jackson VanDerwerken plays Nephi in the new Book of Mormon series. He was just 16 when they started shooting. He is currently serving a mission in Brazil.
The church has put out a whole series of new movies about the Book of Mormon. I don’t know what I expected; wooden acting, flat characters, scriptures being read in radio voice……the typical church videos. Maybe that’s why it took me so long to start watching them. They are really good! I know when the movie is good when I read the book and the characters in my head look like the characters in the movie. That only happens when the actor is able to capture the character. After thirty years of reading the Book of Mormon, when I think of Nephi now, I can see the actor in this series. That’s pretty impressive! The acting, the script, the set, the filming is all first rate. If you want to know more about the Book of Mormon, but don’t feel like reading it, this would be a good place to start.
And not only am I a fan, my thirteen year old son snuck out of bed last night to watch the next episode. Impressive. The fact that he spends hours each day watching low budget YouTube gamer videos might indicate that something as useful as scripture videos would be boring. On the contrary, I think these Book of Mormon videos have some serious appeal to teenagers. I’m no expert on teens, but one thing I have learned really fast; they can smell hypocrisy. They expect inauthentic behavior and they invent them in parents even if they aren’t there. They are creating their mask of perfection and they know you have yours. On the flip side, they seem to love authenticity. Ugly and honest reality resonates with them.
Nephi is his willing to tell the story of his family. It isn’t the whole truth about it of course. It is his perspective and should be recognized for what it is and what it isn’t. Every family is defined differently by each member who has their own memories and perspective. We’ve all had those weird moments when a sibling recalls the details of a family vacation we can’t even remember taking. For some reason, that vacation was meaningful to that person and it was seared into their long-term memory. It wasn’t meaningful to you, so you forgot it. It isn’t that your memory or theirs is wrong. Together, your memories can create a more complete picture of the reality that is and was your family.
Family is so intimate. Our siblings and our parents shape us. Telling the ugly truths about them can feel very personal. Life is messy. There is snot, slobber, and poop. There are addictions, mental and emotional disorders, chronic illness, allergies, muffin tops, cellulite, and a hundred other distasteful things that exist behind closed doors. Nephi lays it all out as he tells his story. He doesn’t spare anyone, even himself and his own father and mother. When they doubt, murmur against God, and cause problems for themselves and their family, he writes it. Maybe no one really wants to have a family like Nephi’s. We would all like to have things be a little more pretty and simple; suits and dresses sitting in a row on the bench at church. No problems here!
Nephi shares his and his family’s personal and physical struggles as they strive to obey God’s commands and make a new life for themselves in a new land.
The truth is, life is hard and messy when it comes to families and the scriptures don’t paint a rosy picture. Jacob and Esau were in a constant state of sibling rivalry even in the womb. Joseph was beaten, imprisioned, and sold into slavery by his brothers. In his misery, Job’s wife told him to “curse God and die.” These accounts aren’t flattering for these families. No one wants to be Job’s wife in this story. No one wants to be the brother who sells his sibling into slavery. Still, a mature reader can have immense empathy for a wife who has lost everything and feels despair or a brother consumed by hatred and jealousy for a favored sibling. The unflattering details in these accounts are important because we can learn from them. Life is hard and sin, death, and disease are real, yet not many people in the history of the world have been willing to talk about the ugly in their families. Often no record at all is made of a person’s life and family. I have talked to people who plan to burn journals before their death; determined to keep their inner lives a secret. This seems such a waste to me. So much can be learned about oneself and the world when we look at life through the eyes of another person. Also, no sin or problem is so great that the Savior’s atonement cannot save. Where is our faith?
Nephi was one of those rare people who recorded his inner thoughts and feelings about his family and gave them to the world. Something about the story of Nephi, Sam, Laman, and Lemuel seems to reveal so much about family relationships to me as a mother of four sons. I’m glad that Nephi made the choice to share the truth about his family even if it wasn’t always pretty. It makes him relatable. Honestly, I relate to Laman and Lemuel too. I relate to Sariah and Lehi. They are real people to me because their lives weren’t perfect. If Nephi had only written the flattering things, I think I would have seen through the deception. Brothers tying one another up and beating each other with sticks…..sounds like my world!
So millions of people have read and will read the Book of Mormon. Now they have made a decent video series that will be watched by many people. Judgements will be made about Lehi and Sariah, their parenting, their children and their posterity. Laman and Lemuel surely would have felt that Nephi’s account was not fair to them. Of course, they were free to make their own scratchings on metal plates if they wanted their story told. Something tells me they never bothered to do that. Will their anger against Nephi be fueled unnecessarily by this willingness to make an account with so much detail and honesty? Does their resentment still smolter against their brother in the afterlife as millions read his story and their unflattering portrayal? Was it okay that Nephi wrote about his family? What about you and I? Should we write the truth about our families from our perspective? If so, when and how should it be shared? These questions are not simple or easy to answer.
I’ve been doing some digital portrait art. It’s so hard to artistically represent a person! One portrait I looked at for hours. Something was not quite right. I had to erase much of the face and redo it because the jaw line was wrong, the ear was not quite long enough, and the eyebrow was too far from the eyelid line. I was trying to be accurate and fair with my first rendering, but it still wasn’t right. Writing about people can be just as difficult as drawing them. How can you reproduce a person accurately and fairly without caricature? How can you convey the essence of a person whether in print or in art? When you are finished, there is no guarantee that the person will like it or want it to be shared. What then? You drew the bags under their eyes, or the lines on their forehead. You drew what was there and if you took those things out, it wouldn’t be them, but they don’t like it. They want a more flattering image, but what if that image comes at the cost of authenticity?
Authenticity makes things meaningful and we humans are very good at being able to tell whether something is authentic or not. Check out this video of a robot pretending to be a person. Some very smart people have spent a lot of time and effort to make an authentic human being, but even a very young child would be able to tell that something isn’t quite right with Sophia. Pick up a stack of Christmas family letters and read them out. Do you get a sense of who these people are? Are the authentic contours of their lives clearly seen? Probably not. The people described are probably more like stick figures than real people.
To clarify, I’m not saying there is anything wrong with the way we write Christmas cards or make robots. I’m just trying to point out that authenticity is not something we do very often outside of art. Artistic expression is limited to very few people. There are advantages to this. The drama of authenticity can be exhausting. Sometimes we don’t really want to know about Grandpa’s indigestion or Aunt Francis’s depression much less their deep dark secrets and sins. There are also disadvantages to hiding our authentic selves. When the grandkids read the Harry Potter series and cry for days over the death of Dumbledore, but then don’t seem to care much at all when Grandpa dies, don’t be surprised. Grandpa may not have seemed much like a real person to them compared to Dumbledore. We make emotional attachments to authentic human beings we can relate to. J.K. Rowling managed to make characters that connected on a deep level with many different people. She did it by making them authentic. If we fail to share our authentic selves with those we love, we may find ourselves alone and disconnected.
I’m finding in my own life that authenticity is extremely important. Meaningful connections keep depression and anxiety at bay not just for me, but for everyone. No person can thrive in isolation. Yet today we live in a world in which individuals are increasingly isolated. Transactional relationships are everywhere in our highly specialized and civilized world. We can pay people to cook for us, clean for us, take care of our children for us, and even help us process emotional trauma. Behind those transactions, can we see the humanity? Can we make authentic connections? We can, but it can be difficult. For me it has taken some vulnerability. I have taken off some masks that I got comfortable wearing. My blog has been a big part of making the journey toward authenticity.
As my parents and I go through the family counselling experience, the blog has become the elephant in the room that is at last being addressed. There are benefits to family counselling, but it is hard. I’ve had a resurgence of depressive symptoms as I have attended these sessions. I’m also reconsidering the purpose and content of my blog in light of my parents’ feelings. I’m trying to answer these tough questions.
In spite of my discomfort and my parent’s discomfort, I feel compelled to share my story with authenticity. It may seem that my efforts at expression are more trouble than they are worth to me and the people I care most about. Maybe they are. Maybe I’m wrong to share. Maybe there are things that are better left unsaid, as I’ve been told. Or maybe Nephi was right. Maybe if we share the ugly truths about our families we can put things in perspective. Our family’s ugly might not be so bad when compared with others! Also, we can learn from each other’s experiences to be better parents to the next generation. I am working on my privacy settings to try to create a blog that works for me and my family. I appreciate your patience as I go through posts and try to decide what audience I want to share with.
I pray that as I go through this process that I will be guided by Him who is Mighty to Save. I know that as dark and difficult as this journey feels right now that it will have a happy ending. There is hope and peace and blessings at the end of this road and maybe even along the way. Thank you for walking this path with me!
Anger in. Self hatred, regret, despair. Why did I share? Why did I speak? I am broken and they are too. There is no point in expression. The fruit of it is judgement and gossip and pain. Stay hidden. Stay safe. Stay alone.
Why hope that someone will care? Why hope that someone will understand? Why hope that by sharing my broken, that someone else might not feel alone?
This life is darkness and despair. Expect the worst in others and yourself because then you won’t be disappointed.
But he didn’t hide. He shared. He spoke. He gave hope because he revealed himself. God so loved the world that he gave his only son that whoso believeth in him shall not perish, but have everlasting life! There is hope in him.
So I will set anger on the table and look at it for a while. Anger in. Anger out. Broken relationships like shards of glass scattered on the table. I will wait as always…..on my face, at His feet.
For the new year, I have been re-focusing on gospel study. For what feels like the millionth time, I am beginning the Book of Mormon again. I Nephi, having been born of goodly parents…. Each time I begin, it’s the same book, but yet it’s different because I have changed. The world has changed.
The impeachment Senate trial of Donald J. Trump has begun. Hours and hours of arguments have been presented to show the contours of the Ukraine scandal and the reasons for the House to take the extraordinary step of impeaching the President. I assume that hours and hours will be spent by the President’s defenders to cast suspicion on the House investigation. The country is divided with each side determined to remain so to the detriment of our country.
It reminds me of the sons of Lehi. Laman and Lemuel on the one side, Nephi and Sam on the other. Laman and Lemuel were suspicious of their father. He was a strange and visionary man. He had coerced them into leaving the comforts of their home and community to wander in the wilderness, hunting game, and living in tents. It brings to mind abusive families and cults who isolate their followers and subject them to privations. And Nephi and Sam support and believe. They are the “good sons” who hang on Dad’s every word. Laman and Lemuel saw the good in the Jewish people that their father had condemned and they felt judged. Why did Nephi and Sam see things so differently?
Nephi was himself a visionary man. It might be said that he saw even more than his father did of the designs of God and His Son. He clearly recognized the evil that had steeped itself in the culture of the Jews and knew that destruction was near. He knew this in a way Laman and Lemuel did not because he inquired of the Lord. In making a sincere connection with the Spirit, he saw the truth; his family could not continue to follow God and remain in Jerusalem. I assume Sam must have come to the same conclusions.
I’ve been reading the history of my mom’s great-great-great grandfather John Lowe Butler. He lived in Tennessee in the 1830’s when he and his wife joined the Mormons. He moved to Far West and then to Nauvoo. His wife’s sister, Charity Skeen, had also joined back in Tennessee, but was not able to migrate. She was a deaf-mute and her brothers were hostile to the church and felt she was being manipulated against her will. He traveled back to Tennessee in 1842 on a mission. He visited Charity and learned that she was still strong in the faith and wanted to join her sister in Nauvoo. Her brothers threatened to kill John if he took her with him.
He made an interesting observation of his former friends, and neighbors. He said that the society was “all pretty well and bitterly opposed to the principles of the Kingdom of God.” He felt they were “full of the devil and persecution.” He, like Nephi, could see that people were hard in their hearts, immune to the truth, and determined to walk their own way, away from God.
Like Lehi, John Lowe Butler had to leave his home and society in order to follow his conscience and become the man God intended for him to be. In his day, as in our day, as in Lehi’s day, there are divisions that no calm recitation of “the facts” will bridge. The devil rages in the hearts of men. He distorts the minds and hardens the hearts of those who allow him to. The narratives are many. The cynical insinuations multiply like rabbits. There are many warriors fighting supposed bad guys; each side certain of their own superiority. Like the people of Babel, we hardly speak the same language anymore. Where is the truth? Who is the enemy? Is it Democrats or Republicans, Christians or Muslims, Muslims or Jews, rich or poor, white or black? What tribe do you belong to? How can you project the faults of your own tribe onto your enemy? How can you defend your own people regardless of their crimes? That is the name of the game.
But the truth is there for those who are willing to inquire of the Lord. In the Book of Mormon, Nephi sees our day. He sees a vision of the rise of “two churches,” one good and one evil. The evil church oppresses the humble followers of Christ and puts them in bondage. Their creed is not of principle or ideology, but of power and lust. Their God is not of heaven, but of mammon. This church is not exclusive. There are members in all parties, religions, ethnicities, nations, and economic means. They see themselves as above the rules. They put the pursuit of power and wealth over everything else. They look down on those who behave honorably and act with integrity. They subject them to persecution and bondage.
I was listening to NPR in the car on the way home from dropping Austin off at preschool. The news talked about the Rohingya in Myanmar and the severe persecution of those people. I imagined in my mind a mob of angry men full of hate and violence. Their victims were the Rohingya; and then they were my ancestors, the Mormon pioneers in Missouri; and then they were the Kurds in Northern Syria. And the mob changed too in my mind. They changed from back to white, from poor to rich, from educated to ignorant, etc. Their weapons were likewise fluid. Sometimes guns, sometimes household items, sometimes laws, sometimes judges and lawyers, sometimes social media shaming.
And I saw the truth of this moment. Like Lehi did. Like Nephi did. Like John Lowe Butler did. There is a rising of evil. There is a hardening of hearts and a blinding of minds. The humble followers of Christ; not only Christians, but everyone who seeks to elevate mankind to greater civility, kindness, and devotion to true principles; will face persecution. We will be driven out. Metaphorically and literally. Driven from councils and schools. Driven from houses of government and places of employment. We will increasingly find ourselves excluded from parties consumed with hate and tribalism, who seek power and revenge. To follow Christ is to reject these things. Christ had a crown of thorns, not gems. He stood above the people nailed to a cross, not elevated on a throne of gold. He was willing to face rejection and death rather than deny the principles and truth he held sacred. If he had lived transactionally, compromised his principles, and made friends with the right people, he would likely have been embraced by the Jews. Perhaps he would have been made a king. A fallen king for a fallen people. Instead He became the King of a different Kingdom. As he said to Pilate, “My kingdom is not of this world.”
I made this image based on Zelda Breath of the Wild, but I made her naked. To me, she is being reborn as a member of a new kingdom of light and hope.
And it has never been of this world. His Kingdom is Zion; where the pure in heart dwell. Zion is all around us, just as the great and abominable church is all around us. We choose which church we belong to by what we set our hearts upon. Will you be driven out with me? Will you take upon yourself the name of my King? Will you become my countrymen in a kingdom that is not of this world? Let us purify our hearts together. Let us partake of a cleansing sacrament of renewal. Let us join hearts and hands in devotion to a higher law, a better way, a holier path guided by the light of truth that resides in the minds of the pure in heart. The Lord will not forget His people. He will not leave us comfortless. As long as we have one another, we will never be alone.
This morning I lay in bed with Pepper nestled sleeping behind my knees and Austin curled up in my arms. It was heaven. For maybe five minutes. And then Austin wanted to snuggle Pepper and then they started playing and climbing all over me and there were twisted sheets and rumpled blankets and strained bladders. The moment was over. Sigh.
I still didn’t want to get out of bed and face the day. My mind cast about for something productive I could do in bed that might transition me out of sleep. I thought of listening to the Book of Mormon. We have been trying to do better this year at studying the scriptures as a family. Last night at dinner I realized I hadn’t read my scriptures that day. Ben ended up carrying the discussion. I wanted to do better.
So I opened my gospel library app and I tapped on the headphone icon and I listened to a few chapters while I tried to settle the dog and the child in for a few more minutes of rest. I thought of how easy it was for me to get my gospel “reading” in without even leaving my bed. Why is consistently doing something so simple so hard for me to do?
“Layne, you read the Percy Jackson series in a week! You could read the whole Book of Mormon in like, a day,” Devin said at dinner a few nights ago. I had just challenged the older boys to read the Book of Mormon for the first time. I told them about how I read the Book of Mormon for the first time when I was about their age and that I had received a witness of the truthfulness of the book just as Moroni promised I would in the final chapters of the book.
Devin was right, of course. The Book of Mormon is not a long book. It isn’t boring either. It is a compelling record with piercing insights. It’s not overly hard to read or understand, and yet, why is it so hard to get past first Nephi? I think the difficulty lies in the simplicity. Like Naaman in the Old Testament who was told to wash in the river to cleanse his leprosy, it was just too easy to feel like it would be effective.
There are a hundred things like that. Eat a few servings of vegetables. Take a walk. Go to bed early. They are simple and relatively easy, and yet how hard is it to consistently do these things? Each time I start getting better at one or two, I start sliding on the others. But today I listened to the Book of Mormon, and I played the Switch with Austin before I took him to preschool. I fed the dog. I ate some healthy food. I’m off to a good start.
I’ve been thinking about how life is full of paradoxes. Easy simple things that are really impossibly hard. Living in this world while remaining unspotted from it. Embracing your feelings and accepting the reality of them without drowning in them. Repenting and changing constantly while remaining committed to core principles. Living centered in yourself without being centered on yourself. Sometimes it feels like it would be easier to walk a tightrope than learn to do these things.
Last week in therapy my counselor said something off hand that has stuck in my brain. She said it like, “of course you know this and everybody knows this, but I’m just going to say it because it fits.” But to me, it didn’t fit. I knew it was true but I knew that I didn’t really believe it. Even after over a year of doing it, I’m still not totally comfortable with it. She said, “Expression is good.”
Of course, my whole blog is based on the premise that expression is good; that hiding and repressing and denying the expression of thought and emotion is profoundly unhealthy. In our society we allow certain people to express in limited ways. Writers, actors, singers, and children are allowed to express if they have sufficient talent to make their work valuable to us. The rest of humanity must tend to more practical matters. Expression is a luxury. Education, personal development, and expression are luxuries only to be experienced by a select few. If such luxuries were distributed to the wider population, what might happen!?! People might engage their brains and become excited. They might start doing dangerous and unexpected things. They might start changing the world.
And yet, I know what the alternative to expression is. I know what it is to hide and be afraid and force my mind into the stupor of pragmatism. I choose expression. Even with the chaos and the messy emotion, expression is better than the alternative. I choose to sing and write and paint and bear my witness that Jesus is the Christ. A portion of his spirit lives in me and he wants me to share it. Like Joseph Smith, a fourteen year old child of no status or significance, I can hear a voice from God and witness to the world that the heavens are not silent. That there is more to this life than the pursuit of power, money, and pleasure. That if you seek after Him who is Mighty to Save, you can also feel of His love and have the desire to express yourself as His creation; not of this world, but of a better world.
Yoda said, “Luminous beings are we! Not this crude matter.” True this is. Wise this is. As I lift my eyes from the mess that is this fallen mortal world, I see that the Savior is the author of our salvation. He has shown me the reality of a better world; repented, redeemed, and saved by His matchless power. It is possible to create that world, with His help, in our own lives. In our own homes. I imagine it as creating an oasis of salvation within a desert of sin. Weary travelers that the Lord brings into my path can rest and take strength as they pass through this life’s trials and experiences.
My ward family is supporting a member who is struggling with some heavy burdens. Yesterday she had another major setback in her journey. Then I read that last week another ward family member, a young father, had a heart attack. Another family in our ward has been displaced and living in a hotel for months while their house is repaired. A woman in our ward gave birth to her baby prematurely. As a family, we have been praying for a fourteen year old boy in Denton who was paralysed in a trampoline accident last year. It’s hard to see how all my prayers and efforts have made much of a difference. Austin prays every day for “Jo-shwa BLACK,” but he is still paralysed. The miraculous healing I hoped for has not happened. I showed Austin the latest pictures of Joshua Black as he stood in his standing frame. He has made slow and steady progress and there is great hope that he will regain the ability to walk. I try to encourage my boys to keep praying and to celebrate those small successes, but I can sometimes see the unspoken questions in their eyes. “Why hasn’t God helped these people?”
The uncomfortable answer is, I don’t know. It isn’t what I wanted or even what I expected. Sometimes it’s incredibly discouraging bearing one another’s burdens when those burdens seem to never lighten. I could say all kinds of things that might make it look better. I could say, “We are exercising our faith,” or “God has helped them, we just can’t see what he has done,” or “God works in his own time.” But something tells me to hold back and let my children feel the sadness and discouragement. That is part of the process. Loving those who suffer is sad and discouraging, but that is what the Savior did. He did it, and so can I. Ironically, as I suffer with them, I find joy. It’s back to the paradoxes again. Losing your life and saving it; sacrificing your happiness and finding it. In a weird way, it makes sense.
Well, it’s time for me to do some laundry, plan a family trip, and prepare for my session with my counselor tonight. I’m going to keep expressing because expression IS good. It’s uncomfortable, and raw, and awkward, but it’s good.
It’s almost 1:30 AM and I am still awake. It is like I am some kind of weird antenna for global unrest and my sensors are humming. To calm my anxiety, I read a couple of chapters in John McCain’s book, Restless Wave. His chapter on American Exceptionalism is one of my favorites. I’ve read it many times and it never fails to inspire me. Try as I might, I can never remember the names of all the dissidents and freedom fighters he writes about in this chapter. Their names are strange and difficult for me to read, but their stories are so familiar. People standing up and facing severe persecution in their efforts to build more just and equitable societies. They inspire me. Their stories hum with heroism in the deep places of my soul; strumming unseen strings.
These people might be called contrarians. They swim against the stream of their fellowmen. They choose to see a better world instead of profiting off the reality of this one. How much do we owe to them and their kind? Everything. They are pioneers, trail blazers, and nurturers of that most precious commodity; hope.
Something about the fact that they have suffered greatly for their integrity and ideals gives their lives the transcendent glow of holiness. Their hope and their efforts inspire me to write again to my representatives in the legislature; to speak truth contrary to popular opinion. The right to speak and to advocate for the oppressed is hard earned and easily lost. There is no effort too small that it cannot make a difference to a world in need.
My mind returns to the Kurdish people. Tears spring to my eyes as I think of Rojava and the horrible betrayal that happened last year. The only tragedy that I can think of that approaches it is the attacks on September 11th. That might seem overdramatic and hyperbolic to some. What makes the Kurdish people so special that their betrayal would compare to the atrocity of terror that occurred on 9-11 on the people of my own country?
When we betrayed the Kurds, we drove a spike through the hearts of thousands of heroic men and women around the world who looked to the United States as a symbol of justice, good will, good faith, and commitment to freedom around the world. Like the planes that took down the towers, those spikes will bring down American influence around the world. The character of the greatest nation the world has ever known has been fatally wounded in a way that an attack from a terrorist could never do. It destroyed our greatest asset; our reputation. And the wound was self inflicted, by the man America trusted to be her President.
How could I not grieve? How could I not be angry? How could I have felt any differently? I wish that somehow I could undo the damage. Instead I sit here at my computer, with my heart in my throat. I pray for the Savior’s grace to fill the massive hole of despair that threatens to overtake it. My fears for my country and the world mount as the forces of darkness seem to invade the hearts of people everywhere. There is a thirst for conflict, a lack of basic compassion and empathy, and a failure to strive for unity.
What is driving this enmity? What fuels this spirit of conflict? Why are we determined to destroy one another? Pride. Arrogance. Entitlement. Envy. They are vices that run amok in today’s world. Their spread is orchestrated by Satan and those who act under his influence. The only power that is capable of saving us is the power of the Only Begotten Son of God. He is the Prince of Peace and only through Him can the world be saved. I search and I find him in the deepest places of my heart. My soul cries out to him in my anguish and he speaks peace. “Peace be unto you my daughter, for the Son hath power over all these things and I will work a marvelous work which will confound the wise, for I have not forgotten my people. They hear my voice and my power is in them in every nation, tongue, and people.” I may not be able to pronounce or remember their names, but they are known to him. He has not forgotten them and although America may fall, He will not.
And yet my faith is weak. Like Peter, I look at the waves and call out, “Master save me!” Oh me of little faith. Finally my sedatives are starting to work. It is just after 2:00. Before I leave my computer, I have one final prayer.
God, Father of Heaven and Earth, please have mercy on me, thy handmaid. Forgive me of my sins and weaknesses and hear my humble plea. There are so many around the world who are displaced, persecuted, imprisoned, and killed in the struggle for basic human rights. These are rights I take for granted and have had from my birth. I am no better than them. I am no more deserving of those things. Please, I beg of thee, have mercy on them. Extend to them the blessings I have, if it be thy will. Inspire them with the vision and hope that they need to carve a path to a better world for their children and grandchildren. Let the light of freedom shine in the dark places of this planet. Let the hearts that have gone cold be met with hearts lit with the fires of liberty. May those fires never be extinguished no matter how hell rages against them! Let me spread those fires as far and wide as I can, to all those who need to hear my voice, let it resonate in their hearts. Amen.
“Baby Yoda! Bady Yoda! Floating in a pod, Baby Yoda!” Repeat. Repeat. Forever. We haven’t had this much excitement about a song since Baby Shark. When the break started I was a drill sergeant insisting on chores, scripture reading, personal prayers, and exercise before they were allowed to have any screen time which was strictly limited and policed. By the last week we had binge watched the entire season of The Mandalorian, along with the entire Star Wars prequels and sequels. We also gorged on YouTube videos of “Star Wars Theory” which explains every possible Star Wars question you ever had including why different Jedi have different colored lightsabers and how Annakin was conceived by the force. We finished off with a night at the theater to see the final episode nine, The Rise of Skywalker on the last day of the break. If I started out the break as Baby Yoda in The Mandalorian, I have definitely become Master Yoda from Return of the Jedi now that it’s over. “When nine-hundred years old you become, look as good you will not.”
Having the brothers around all day definitely made Austin’s life more exciting. He was tickled and teased and scolded and snuggled every day. It has been fun to see how strong the bond is between him and Devin. Layne has also become quite close to his little mini-me. Still, Austin didn’t seem to miss them much yesterday though, as he had the Nintendo Switch all to himself. His favorite game is Zelda Breath of the Wild which is also my favorite game. We may or may not have played the game all day. I plead the fifth.
Today he is back at preschool after a full month long break. And I survived! The depression was screaming at me this morning. “You were late! You were late! You stayed in bed too long!” And I shouted back at the depression, “I did it! I survived winter break.” I even requested an application for substitute teaching at Little Hearts.
This year, I am going to bring it. I am going to do some incredible things. I already have! I’ve made some really beautiful art. My counselor says its some of the best she has seen me do. My life is on track and I am taking my power. Depression speaks, but I choose not listen to that voice. I am a powerful, talented, compassionate, strong woman and this year I am going to be who my Savior needs. I will make him proud.
Rey has been an inspiring character for me. I admit, I didn’t like her at first. I felt like Star Wars and Disney were trying to make the series more female friendly. That’s not a bad thing. I’m all for making Hollywood less white and male, but with Rey it just seemed like they were trying too hard. I thought she was too androgenous to be realistic. I just wasn’t excited about Rey and neither were my boys. They had loved Annakin and Obiwan when the prequels came out, but Rey just didn’t inspire the same excitement. The first two movies were good and I got used to her. By the last movie, I think she is one of the best written female characters I have ever come across. I absolutely love her. She epitomizes the strengths that women need to possess to fight the very real battles in today’s world. We need to bring every ounce of compassion, every sliver of healing energy, every smidgen of courage and tenacity that we can muster. If the world is to be saved, women will be the instrument the Savior will use to save it.
****spoiler alert for the new movie!****
There are some very core themes that Star Wars explores about femininity with the characters of Leia and Rey. We tend to be drawn to men who don’t deserve us or understand us; We have an innate desire to heal men of their pain and bring out their better nature; and finally we have a miraculous power to inspire the men we are able to reach. Han Solo, the cynical mercenary, became a hero of the resistance; a living legend. Why? Because Leia shamed him into seeing who he was and that he was living beneath his potential. Han Solo wanted Leia to love him, but she refused to give him her heart until he earned it by becoming the man she deserved.
Similarly, Kylo Ren yearned for the companionship of Rey. He envisioned them together on the dark side. He used every tool he possessed to bring her down to his level. She saw the power and resources of Kylo Ren and refused to be seduced by them. She prefered Ben Solo, the discarded alter ego she could sense behind the mask of Kylo Ren. She, like Luke, could sense that Ben Solo was still alive and capable of throwing off the hideous darkness he had allowed to fester within his soul that had transformed him into the monster he had become.
Rey and Leia combine their love for Ben Solo and their hatred for the travesty of Kylo Ren to bring about the redemption of his character. Kylo Ren is literally killed by Rey with help from Leia. As he lay dying, Rey, sensing Leia’s passing, and horrified at what she had done, kneels beside her nemesis and heals him. At last, with Kylo Ren’s defeat and death, Ben Solo has the strength to throw off the darkness and take his role as a key member of the resistance; helping to destroy the emperor. He earns the love of Rey at last. Rey and Leia save their family and heal the galaxy with their love, patience, humility, courage, and tenacity.
One of the innate tendencies of women is to follow when we should lead, to stay silent when we should speak out, and to go along to get along rather than rock the boat. I’ve seen time and time again in my own life when things have gone badly wrong because a woman submitted to her husband, or her boyfriend, or her father. There is a lot I am still learning about the eternal nature of male and female, but one thing I have become certain about. The submission of women is wrong; at least the way I have seen it play out. I have found as I have become more vocal and more assertive I have had to fight against the tendency to submit; to discount my instincts, to set aside my concerns, and to subdue my nature. That isn’t what my Savior wants me to do right now. The societal trends are too toxic. We must not be silent or submissive when there is so much at stake. Our unique gifts as women are vital right now.
I didn’t expect spiritual impressions watching Star Wars at the movie theater, but I got them. One impression I had was that the coming years would require me to give more and better than I have in the past. There is a time of testing that is coming that will demand everything that I have in the way of talents and gifts both temporal and spiritual. I thought of the words of President Nelson’s recent Facebook post welcoming in the New Year. He closed the post with the ominous words, “The time to act is now. This is a hinge point in the history of the Church, and your part is vital.” I felt like those fighters in Poe’s fleet, standing up to forces that are impossibly powerful and depending on good people to step up to a fight they could never win; to be inspired to set their fear aside and do what is right even though it is so hard. I feel so small and inadequate. What difference can I possibly make in a world so determined to decline? I’m nothing but a woman. A stay-at-home mom who has no power or consequence.
And yet in the movie, they did it. There were enough good people who were strong enough together, and it was enough. I will do it and it will be enough. Somehow, we will stand and endure and overcome. Help will come in unexpected ways and from unexpected places. The Lord will have a pure people and we will be tested and tried to see if we will seek him and put him first.
I’m grateful for President Nelson’s leadership right now. I’m grateful for a Savior who answered the prayer of a child in New York two hundred years ago. I’m grateful for a Savior who continues to hear and answer the prayers of all those who diligently seek him. He lives! He is Mighty to Save! He has a plan for these last times and it will be glorious to behold.
I grabbed the empty wrapper in frustration. “Where did it go! It was just here!” Wesley’s bony form was hovered over the Arby’s sandwich. After over a week of the flu, he had become even more thin and for a moment I was encouraged that he had finally taken the sandwich I had offered him repeatedly. Then Layne and Wesley locked eyes. I groaned audibly. This was another one of their food fights.
All Christmas break they had been fighting over food. Once Layne made waffles and refused to give any to Wesley. Layne insisted there was not enough for Wesley to have one. Wesley insisted that he was starving to death and needed to have a big stack. Meanwhile I was trying to get Layne to share while frantically mixing up and cooking more waffles. Ten minutes later, everyone was gone from the table as I ate my small waffle. I had traded with Wesley who was indignant that he had gotten the smallest one. I had added a second waffle to his plate, hoping that he was as famished as he claimed to be. He wasn’t. His two waffles sat abandoned on his plate. I think he ate one bite. The food wasn’t the point. It was the fight. It is always about the fight.
So Wesley had turned his nose up at the sandwich I had offered him, and I had offered it to Layne. When Layne came down to get the sandwich, Wesley had taken it for himself. But was not eating it. He didn’t actually want the sandwich. It was about the fight. So of course my offer to cut the sandwich in half was met with hysteria by both boys, each insisting that they had claim to the entire thing. I was supposed to choose. There was supposed to be a winner and a loser. That was the point of the entire exercise.
I had been fighting panic all day. It was the dreaded companion I didn’t want but could not be rid of. Ben had been helping me limp through the day, taking breaks, planning, and writing. The food fight was the last straw. I felt the panic take over as I shouted at them. “I can’t make you get along! I can’t make you be kind to one another! I can’t make you be happy! I can’t do it.”
That led to the major meltdown. Finances were tight, the car needed repairs, the washer was on the blink. We had just replaced the T.V. and the vacuum. They had both gone out unexpectedly. I hadn’t made anything for dinner and Ben and I were late getting off on our date. If we didn’t leave soon, we would get back late, then I would get to bed late, and then we would be late to 9:00 AM church.
A new year comes with serious challenges for me mentally. I fall back into old perfectionistic patterns. “This year,” I say intensely, “This year I will do it! I will finally take my life back. I will get the trains running ontime. I will make everyone happy, keep everyone happily progressing along the straight and narrow path, be organized and disciplined, and get it right.” Then the days of January pass one by one and I find that I am still the disorganized mess I have always been. The clutter of last year still remains in piles around the house. The energy drains from me as I realize that nothing has changed. And it never will change; not the way I want it to.
Stuff will break, money will be tight, the boys will fight, and we will be late. Panic will come and I will shout and cry and pull my hair. We will pull out of the driveway for church at 9:00 and slip into sacrament meeting after the sacrament. We will try and fail and try again and nothing will be perfect- except when it is. And those moments will be brief and glorious.
Today sacrament meeting was one of those glorious moments. Every testimony seemed to speak to my soul. Each member who spoke seemed to share a piece of themselves with me and my loneliness lifted. I felt a real spiritual connection with each person and with God. I talked to friends. I gave and received hugs. I met my new Primary class! Each little face seemed to be a new adventure; a new soul to find and bring to the Savior.
One little boy came into sacrament meeting with his Mom and three little siblings. I didn’t recognize her. She was by herself and was even more late than we were. Her curly hair and dark skin reminded me of my Tedford children. They weren’t at church this week and I was sad for that. Seeing this woman and her little ones gave me hope and joy. I was so happy when I found out that little boy is in my primary class!
And so I begin another year. Another year of battling crippling anxiety and debilitating depression. Another year of alarming headlines and unhinged tweets. Another year of political campaigns and disinformation campaigns. Another year of wars and rumors of wars as we march into an uncertain and ominous future.
And yet as I write this today, this moment, I feel peace. Satan is real. The pain is real. The diseases are real. The chaos and fear are real. But so is He. And he is Mighty to Save! I am enough because of his grace. I can face this year and this decade, and whatever is left after that with hope and optimism only because I know He will be there to walk the road with me.
Yesterday I sang in sacrament meeting. Ever since I stopped going to church in October, I was hoping that I would be able to sing in the Christmas program. When it didn’t seem I would be able to return before Christmas, I was so disappointed. What joy I felt when I was able to partake of the sacrament with my ward family! I prayed mightily that when I sang that I would not see judgmental and angry Trump supporters as my fearful mind had imagined. The anger and bitterness in my heart was swallowed up by his atonement. Not only was I able to sing in the choir, I sang a solo as well. I was honored to have the opportunity to testify of my Savior in song in celebration of his birth.
I thought about how many songs I have performed in this Christmas season. Grand Chorus sang 11 songs in the DMCO concert, we sang about four in the stake Christmas concert, and four in the ward Christmas program, and then I sang one solo. That’s a lot of singing! Almost every one of them was testifying of the Savior somehow.
Almost twenty songs!! That is a lot of testifying. Not only did I perform the music, but I also learned and practiced it. I also attended my son’s Christmas band concert and his clarinet recital. The band concert was a little difficult since I had Austin who was constantly distracting me, but the recital was different. The clarinet is a shamefully underrated instrument. The low rich resonance of the clarinet is like a warm blanket and hot chocolate on a cold winter day. Hearing the clarinet ensembles play complicated music with dancelike precision was inspiring. Those young musicians made me want to work harder and be better. Music will never make me any money. The clarinet will likely never make my son any money. That’s okay. The value is in the mode of expression. There is nothing like musical expression. I could sit and type here for days and never be able to convey the message of the Savior’s birth like music can.
As I sat on the stand waiting to sing our next choir number, my brain started to synthesize the details of the Savior’s birth; the manger, the animals, the virgin mother, the shepherds, the wise men, the angels…….the strangeness of it all. Of all the royal births in king’s courts celebrated by nobles and announced with trumpets across the land, we remember and celebrate a child born in a stable to an obscure couple in a small city halfway around the world.
In the age of Trump, Ailes, Epstein, Weinstein, Cosby, and Jackson, we see what power, fame, and money can do to men. This is not to say that all men who have these things become like these travesties of human degradation, but they would not have been able to do the amount of damage that they did and get away with it for so long without the support of those around them who profited from denial. They were willing to look away because confronting the truth was inconvenient, painful, or even dangerous.
In that moment in sacrament meeting, sitting in the alto section of the ward choir, I seemed to see for the first time the sad truth. It has always been this way; powerful men abusing and using and hurting others. There is no justice. There is no mercy. There is no compassion. Not in this world. We are fallen. We hurt one another and ourselves. The shrewdest, hardest, most cruel person is often rewarded while the best and brightest who show us a better path are rejected, beaten, stoned, banished, and murdered.
It is no wonder we long for something better. We celebrate the birth of the Savior; a man so different than the petty tyrancial despots with their cadres of sycophants! A man of complex opposites, he was the servant king, the bridegroom and the man of sorrows who was acquainted with grief. He was the most powerful person ever born on the Earth, able to control the elements, and command the spirits. Those who saw him could not deny that he was not of this world. They either feared and hated him, or revered and worshiped him, but he could not be ignored. He said that if his disciples were of the world, the world would love their own. Because we are not of the world, the world hates us. Before it hated me, it hated Him. That brings some comfort doesn’t it?
And I have a new hope as I watch this season of political upheaval commence. As a nation we have strayed from the Savior. We worship celebrities and politicians. We feel powerless and resentful as we see suffering and wrongs. We blame others for these wrongs and find scapegoats to despise and punish. The meek and lowly Savior with his endless patience and persuasion is not popular even with those who carry his name. The truth is, the Savior was powerless among men. He was not a military leader, a corporate climber, or even a religious leader. He held no office of respect or honor among men. God spoke to Him and showed Him how to feed his flock, to serve His people. They came out of the world seeking after him. They were made alive with His spirit. He did what he could do and it was enough. If I do what I can do; write on my blog, sing my songs, testify of my Savior, live authentically; it will be enough.
In a wicked world of might makes right, there is only one man who made it possible for us to live differently. He showed us that we can pierce the heavens and bring His spirit down to bless the lives of others. His power is real, and His influence potent. He is the only way. Meekness, humility, compassion, submission, faith, and hope. Political machinations, caucuses, elections, bills, judicial appointments, and government bureaucracies will not save us, and nor will they destroy us if we tap into the power of Him who is Mighty to Save.
It’s hard to put into words the spirit I felt at the moment. It was as though my mind had opened, like a Christmas rose, to see hope and truth at a time where my mind is often clouded with fear and doubt. Then the moment passed, as it always does. As the day progressed I had dinner to make, messes to clean, fights to referee, and lessons to teach. When everyone was in bed, I sat on the floor in my bathroom for a few minutes to meditate.
“Lord,” I asked in a small voice, “How am I doing?” I felt a wash of comfort and peace come over me. My mind flashed through the many hard things I’ve done, the courage I’ve shown, the ways I have served, the testimony I sang, and the guilt and shame that I carry around were swept away. It is enough! I am enough, and the Lord is pleased with my offerings.
I started writing a poem. It’s a bad one, but it uses simple language to convey complicated concepts. I wrote it for my boys and hopefully it will help teach them a little about the way I feel about my Savior at Christmastime. I’ll post it when I have it finished.
We celebrate Christmas near the winter solstice. It is not thought to be his actual birthday, but I think it is symbolic just the same. The days grow ever shorter as the winter solstice approaches, and yet the sting of this decay of daylight is swallowed up with Christmas. We celebrate the coming of better times, of progressively greater amounts of daylight. Christ can do that for us in our lives. He can take the darkness away. He can bring the light in.
One of my sons, my little Wesley, was born on the winter solstice. I have always considered him to be my best Christmas present. He has brought such joy and light into my darkest days. When I am upset or depressed he is always there with a hug and an encouraging word. I have seen in him what I imagine the Savior would do. Once, he was four years old and playing one of his first soccer games. There was a younger boy on the team, a young three year old. He looked scared and uncertain as they stood waiting for the game to start. Wesley leaned over and gave him a side hug. He seemed to intuitively know how that boy felt and how to help reassure him. His teachers have told me about times he has watched for children who are sad or feel left out and he tries to include them. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine what the Savior’s love looks like until we see it. Then we know. Then we can go and do likewise.
Wesley with a teammate. The expression on his face captures the empathy he has.
One of the Christmas carols I did not sing this year was “Gesu Bambino,” or the Christmas rose carol. Wesley is my Christmas rose. The Savior is my Christmas rose. I am so grateful for the tender mercies of a loving Savior who has given me a voice to sing his praises in many different ways.
The Broken Handmaid 