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I stood beside Ben a little over seventeen years ago in the Salt Lake Temple. That beautiful building was the place where my parents, grandparents, and great grandparents were married. Together, dressed in our wedding and temple clothing Ben and I looked into a large mirror on one wall of the ceiling room. On the other side was another large mirror, so that the reflections seemed to stretch in a shadowy corridor into infinity. It was a powerful metaphor to teach us the vital importance of our place at that time, between the mirrors.

As I return to that memory, I can almost imagine my ancestors dressed in white, standing in the shadows, watching.  Always watching.  Also, my children, their wives and their children, watching.  Because what happens between the mirrors is what is important.  It is where everything changes.

Eternal things don’t change.  Temporal things change.  When we come to this mortal world, we fall, as Adam and Eve fell into a place where things are in a constant state of flux, being born and dying in an ever changing cycle.  Nothing lasts, nothing stays the same, everything dies.  Where we came from, it was not this way.  Where we go after this life, it will not be this way.  This life is the time to prepare to meet God, to find the Savior and own him our Lord.  That is our one task while we enter the realm between the mirrors.

Last night I couldn’t sleep.  As the clock went from eleven o’clock, to twelve o’clock to one, I started to pray as I often do when I can’t sleep.  The silent stillness of the night seems to make my prayers reverberate and ascend to heaven more swiftly.   My mind went to my great grandfather Edwin Harris Cutler.  I had been reading about him that night on Family Search.  He was a school teacher like me.  He died when I was one year old, almost to the day.  I have no memory of him, and I often get him confused with the many other Edwin Cutlers in his line.  I got the distinct impression that although I don’t know him, he knows me very well.  “You are in the arena,” he said, “We all see you, and our hopes and prayers are with you.”

I imagined myself leaving this life and entering the mirror shadow corridor to take my place with the others.  There I will watch my descendants enter the space between the mirrors, see them take my place, bear the burdens that I bore, struggle with the genes I struggled with, battle the enemy I fought.  I will pray for them always.  I will cry with them, I will stand beside them when they are too weary to go on.  I will guard them from harm and warn them of danger.  Of course I will.  I will hope beyond hope that perhaps they will get it right.  Perhaps they will realize at last, the potential that I know is in our DNA; the potential that has been hampered by sin and false traditions, by pride and weaknesses that I strove to overcome while I was between the mirrors.  I will see in them, the sins I am guilty of and their devastating consequences.  That will be my hell.  I will see in them, the virtue I possessed and passed on.  That will be my heaven.

And so I live another day between the mirrors.  It doesn’t feel like the work I do, tending sick children, wiping noses, making peanut butter sandwiches, and teaching life lessons, is very significant.  It is of little consequence to this world, but it is eternally significant.  I live between the mirrors and I have the opportunity to bless my future family by the decisions I make today to trust in my Savior, follow his commandments, and draw strength from his love.  They watch me and they cheer for me, my guardian angels.  I can’t see them, but they are there and I can feel their love, blended with His love.  My Savior and Redeemer, the source of my hope and my salvation!

When I’m depressed, I have a hard time keeping up with my Austin. Unfortunately he spends a lot of time watching Kid Tube, which is not recommended. Of course, the experts are adamant that these little people should have NO screen time. I can only assume that they don’t have a child of their own, they have a live-in nanny, or they have managed to live with themselves having never taken a shower.

As a broken mom living in a fallen world, I kind of love Kid Tube, and I’ve watched quite a bit of it myself with Austin. We have snuggle time in the morning before school and at some point he asks for the I-Pad. He will start watching a video, but he doesn’t have it full screen, so that the algorithm suggestions of other videos cross the bottom of the screen. If he gets bored with a video, he taps a different one. Because of these algorithm suggestions and his browsing, I have observed some very interesting things about his taste and preferences. Many of the assumptions I have made about children and Austin in particular are not as accurate as I thought.

First, Austin likes nothing better than to watch little boys play with their moms. His favorite thing to watch is Ryan’s Toys, which I assume used to be a toy review channel. Most of what I have seen of it though, is a little boy, playing with his mom and sometimes his mom and dad. They play silly games involving cardboard sets, what looks like cell phone video with occasional cheesy special effects, and lots of imagination. To say it is low budget is insulting to low budget films. It is more like no-budget. In spite of this, the channel has hundreds of thousands of subscribers and the videos have millions of views. Ryan’s Toys even has a product line at Walmart apparently. Austin also watches other video channels that have children playing with their parents who seem truly engaged and excited about spending time doing silly things with their kids. I thought that little ones liked animal characters and bright cartoon colors best. It would seem Austin most craves what he experiences vicariously through watching Ryan’s channel, he wants my undivided attention engaged in fun, imaginative activities with him.

Second, I used to think that educational programming for children this age involved learning letters, numbers, and progressing as an emergent reader. Those things are important, of course, but as I’ve pondered and observed my children I have learned to trust my instincts. My instincts say that children this age know what they need to do learn and if you can let them take the lead, they will learn so much just by playing. My little ones, from age eighteen months to four years old or so, seem drawn to repetition. They want to watch the same shows, read the same storybooks, and hear the same songs again and again. Even if the media is not specifically educational, the child is constructing vocabulary and syntax in the brain and comprehending more information each time he watches, reads, or hears it repetitively over and over again.

Cocomellon is another channel that Austin loves. I adore this channel which is animated and usually focuses on a child playing with his mother, his older sister, and sometimes friends. They do everyday activities and solve problems. One of Austin’s favorite videos which he has watched probably ten times or more, features a baby boy with his mom at the playground. It is called No, No Playground Song. His mom or sister sings a song while trying to put shoes on the baby. The baby says no. She takes a stuffed toy from her wagon and puts the baby’s shoes on the toy, then the baby insists that she put the shoes on him. This scenario is repeated with several other activities at the playground like climbing the bars, swinging in the swing, etc. This video demonstrates a parenting strategy that has been very useful for me. I have observed that when I play act an activity with a toy, Austin loves it. For example, I take his stuffed bear and change his diaper. I give the bear a kiss when he gets hurt, I give him a pacifier and put him to bed, I put bear in timeout to think about his choices with his stuffed dog friend. Seeing these interactions from a distance rather than actually experiencing them first hand is a good way for the child’s brain to process it a different way and understand it better.

So today we let Austin take some of his new birthday toys to church. He was playing with them during the sacrament, and I tried to redirect him to what was happening. Using this Cocomellon video as a model, I whispered in his ear, “See? It’s Devin. What is Devin doing? He has some bread. He’s giving it to the friends. They are thinking about Jesus.” Then I said the same script with Layne. “See? It’s Layne. What is Layne doing? He has some bread.” He loves Devin’s friend Michael who was also passing, so I repeated the script with Michael too. When the bread came to us, before I ate my piece, I put the bread up to his toys one by one so they could have some. “Look, Owlette took the bread. She is thinking about Jesus. Jesus will help her make good choices and be a better superhero.” I repeated the same script with the water, although there was some disruption. It took time to give each toy their pretend sip before I could dispose of my cup. People had to wait a few extra seconds and they noticed I was not behaving myself. What was that crazy lady doing? I was talking during the sacrament, albeit quietly, and isn’t it terribly irreverent to pretend to give sacrament bread to toys? Scandalous! I should get the stink eye even worse for this than waiting too long to take my screaming child out of the meeting! Or think again…..

The thing is, at risk of seeming scandalously blasphemous, the sacrament is a kind of play. If you think about most ordinances, they are God’s way of teaching his children through symbols and play acting. Bread is not the body of Christ, it is a symbol the same way a stuffed bear is a symbol of a real bear. We are pretending to take Christ’s body into ourselves just like we take food into ourselves. He becomes a part of us. It is play acting with toys or symbols.

Perhaps the reason we find our gut response to my interactions with Austin today uncomfortable is not because they are wrong, but because we perform the ordinances of the gospel like adults do everything, with too little of our minds and hearts engaged. Perhaps we would rather be zombies, going through the motions of the ordinances with important adult thoughts going through our important adult brains, than think of it as a playful learning experience given to us by a master teacher who knows how children learn best. I would rather engage my mind and soul while making a little noise and making a few church people uncomfortable if it means my baby grows up learning that the sacrament is a time to engage the brain and not zone out. I’m a rebel like that! Judge me, but it’s not going to change me. In fact, I might go further……

If you expand this idea, you could demonstrate baptism with toys. You could set up a baptism of Superman with stuffed animals or action figures witnessing and recording it. You could teach about the covenant being made. Then you could have Superman confirmed and teach your child about the Holy Ghost and how it will help Superman be better at helping others. The temple ordinances would not be appropriate to teach children in this way since we don’t have children attend the temple, unless a child is preparing for a temple sealing. Then an altar could be made of a box of tissues covered with a wash cloth, etc, etc.

It may seem silly and irreverent, but it doesn’t have to be. Church doesn’t have to be boring and robotic to be reverent. Sometimes teaching children has to be out of the box. The religious box is too boring and ritualistic for children. They are alive and vibrant. Most of all, they are greatly loved by the Savior who has much more compassion for them than most adults probably realize. I keep coming back to the time when Christ told his disciples that in order to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven, they had to become as little children. I wonder if that is part of what he meant. We have to learn to experience the gospel ordinances as play/pretend like a child would do. We have to engage with our inner child and give her permission to participate more fully in the ordinances. Not silly and carelessly, but as earnestly and intently as my son plays with his PJ Mask figures.

Yesterday I woke up panicked. I only a had a couple of gifts for my baby and no decorations or plans for a cake. Today is his third birthday. The last four days or so, I have been writing and researching a blog post that will be a little different than any others. The subject matter is very sensitive, so I am discussing it with a few people before I post it. It is eight pages long and has pictures too…..It will be worth waiting for!

In the meantime, I will post about my adventures dashing about to make a perfectly imperfect birthday for Austin. First, I had to give myself some love so I could get out of bed. I said, “It’s okay Bridgette. He is three. He didn’t see the wonderful cakes you used to make for the your other kids. He doesn’t really care whether we celebrate on the actual day, or a week later. Just get out of bed, love your baby, do what you can, and it will work. He will smile and laugh and have a great time.”

My friend Jenny helped me get to the party store to get my supplies. After chasing Riley, aged 4, and Austin (He was wearing a Pikachu hat and carrying a Captain America shield smiling and laughing) through the party store, getting a stink eye from a manager when they were riffling through the candy, and actually managing to get a few things, we went to the pet store next door to let the kids look at some hamsters, lizards, and birds. It was the best trip ever!…..for the kids. You would have thought we had paid for an all expense trip to Disneyland. Common lizards and goldfish were treated like rockstars. They ran excitedly from display to display.

We rode home with a beautiful balloon bouquet. Six balloons including a PJ Masks foil balloon. One of the balloons perished on the trip, but Austin didn’t see, so we were good. Unfortunately, it didn’t live long. Austin loved most of the balloons to death. The foil balloon met the ceiling fan. Only two balloons survived until this morning. The last one floated to the ceiling. Devin shot it with a “spikey dart” which is a specially engineered Nerf dart with a tack installed in it. Bet you didn’t know that was a thing. There is now a “spikey dart” stuck in our ceiling…..sigh.

Last night I stayed up late ordering some gifts on Amazon with free one day shipping. What did imperfect procrastinating Moms do before free one-day shipping? I don’t know, but the presents arrived this afternoon and are ready to wrap. Thank you Amazon!

This morning Riley came over to play for an impromptu birthday party. “He came running in the door, “Austin, Austin!!! Happy Birf-day!” There were no invitations, no RSVP, no pile of gifts, no carefully planned games or expensive party packages, no Pinterest ideas. Ben had to take Devin and Layne to a soccer game, Devin had an audition for band, and then there was a second game after that. I had to decorate, wrap gifts, make cupcakes, and entertain little ones, all without Ben’s help. I gave myself some love again. I said, “Bridgette, he’s three. He doesn’t need a houseful of friends. Wrap the playdough Jenny got for him yesterday and have him open it. He will love it! Riley will love it. Then they can play with the playdough for an activity. Layne can make the cupcakes while you manage the playdough activity. Wesley can help decorate the table.”

So that is what happened. Rainbows, dinosaurs, and lollipops with toys hidden inside were created to the delight of my little angel and his special friend. Colors were mixed to make new colors. Messes were made. Layne made the cupcakes. He gave the coveted beater to Austin to clean. That was an act of unusual unselfishness. He was given due praise for his heroism. At one point he overfilled the paper cups. Instead of screaming and making a fuss, I told him how nicely he had done on making the batter. I helped him fix the cupcakes and they turned out great. They aren’t finished. I still have some ambitious plans to make some fondant decorations…..we’ll see how that works out.

At one point I was trying to color my fondant, and the boys were playing in the front yard. There was a panicky moment where Wesley rode his bike out in front of a car. I came out to talk to the neighbor who saw what happened. I handled my emotions, I introduced myself to the neighbor and then talked to the people in the car. The judgement I feared was not there. Only concern and friendship. Wesley was disciplined. He was sulky for a while, but he is alive.

When Jenny came to get Riley and they were headed out to their truck, his face clouded. He didn’t want the party to be over. I held out my arms and he came to me. I picked him up and hugged him. I thanked him for coming and told him I loved him and would see him tomorrow at church. There are few things that are as valuable and sweet as the love of a little boy like Riley. He loves me, and I am a rich lady.

Ben came home and took Austin to the second soccer game with him. I’m so thankful I have a few quiet minutes to write this and pat myself on the back. I was a perfectly imperfect mom today. My Austin knows that I love him. He doesn’t have a perfect mom, a perfect birthday party, or a perfect life, but he has a smile on his face and a spring in his little step. He has a best friend, some cupcakes, some toys, and a happy broken mom who adores him.

Devin made alternate at his audition. When he came home, we ran to each other and he hugged me so tightly I couldn’t breathe. He’s an amazing musician and friend and I can’t believe he is as tall as me now. His accomplishments astound me. I am so proud of him my heart could burst.

Depression is hard and anxiety is harder. Perfection is impossible, and that’s okay. He is perfect. He is enough. He loves me and because he loves me, I am enough. Not perfect, but perfectly imperfect; an instrument in his hand. The broken handmaid of the Lord. I walk the path of his healing. Sometimes I walk, sometimes I crawl, and sometimes I dance, to his eternal rest.

Counselling; a blessed misery. You never really know how you are going to feel the next day. Sometimes it’s like a really good workout, and the next day every move feels like murder. Today is one of those days. I know that the counselling session had to happen and that what we talked about needed to be discussed, but that doesn’t make the pain any easier.

I once compared counselling to a pelvic exam. It’s the best metaphor I’ve found, but you could also use bone setting, physical therapy, or any number of excruciating and humiliating physical treatments. It is raw and real and vulnerable. You cry. You say things you never thought you would say to someone you hardly know. Family loyalty, that sacred bond, is sacrificed in the name of healing. Many sufferers can’t get past that. It took me many, many years to get past it.

The truth is, no family worth being loyal to doesn’t want you to heal. No family member who truly knows you and takes the time to sit in your agony with you would ever hesitate to say, “Tell them whatever you need to say, just get the demons out of your head. You don’t deserve to feel this way.” We talk a lot in our churches about eternal families. The truth is, there is only one family that is eternal, and that is the family of Christ.

When Christ was teaching his disciples, someone came and interrupted him and said that his mother and brother wanted to talk to him. He said, “My mother and my brethren are these that hear the word and do it.” Who knows what his biological family thought of him? We know that Mary had much divine insight into the Savior and his divinity, but we don’t know if the other members of his family thought he was the Son of God. Maybe they thought he was crazy. That would be more about them than it was about him. We all have to decide what family we belong to. The family of Christ is a family of healing. No one in that family keeps anyone from healing, no matter what family secrets they have to reveal.

I can’t go into specifics about yesterday because it isn’t my story to tell. I only tell my story on this blog. I will say that those who suffer abuse are my family, those who seek healing are my family, those who cling to lies and excuses and minimize the abuse in their families and then pass it on, you can’t be my family, because abuse is not allowed in my family.

What is Abuse? Like every word in a fallen language, it can mean vastly different things to different people. To me abuse is best described as unrighteous dominion. Every person is given their divine agency. When someone engages in a pattern of behavior that systematically takes that agency away for the abuser’s own benefit, that is abuse. It has a particular scent of evil that once smelt, is never forgotten.

Abuse can look different depending on the abuser and the victim. Some victims are compliant and then the system can look fine on the outside. Once I read about a woman whose husband exercised complete control over her by putting a bullet in the window sill of her kitchen. Every time she did the dishes she would see it and she knew what would happen to her if she disobeyed him. She never did, so nothing happened. That was abuse. There was no shouting, no bruises, and no outward signs, just a threat in the form of a symbol, but it was still abuse. She was totally subjected to the whims of her husband just as if he beat her every day. Sometimes the worst forms of abuse are mental and emotional where the victim is subjected to the psychological lies of the abuser for so long that the victim’s reality is no longer valid to them. This abuse can be passed along in families, as most abuse is. In the scriptures it is called, “the false traditions of their fathers,” and then as if to underscore the point they usually add, “which were not correct,” lest we forget.

Once I lay in a dark room pretending to be asleep as I heard a man verbally abuse his wife in another room. She urged him to stay quiet and tried repeatedly apologizing to calm his wrath. His denigrating comments and coldly cruel tone are forever burned into my memory. I witnessed this man engage in the abuse of his wife for sixteen years, but that first day in the dark was the only time it was shown to me so naked and raw. At first I tried to understand it and the dysfunctional system that created it, and have compassion on the people that it shaped. I realized this year at last, that you cannot be a part of a family system that allows abuse, or it will destroy you. It will sicken you. If you speak out about it, they will blame you and demonize you. If you say quiet, you are complicit. There is nothing eternal about a family like that, unless it is eternal darkness and damnation.

The only person I can control is myself. The only family I have are those who accept Jesus Christ, embrace unconditional love, and reject abuse in all its forms. There is no secret that will not be revealed. Bruises can be covered, tears wiped away, diaries burned, abusers excused, victims blamed, and behavior “forgiven,” but in the end, the God of heaven will reveal those secrets, and woe to those who have kept them. Abuse is a family sin; it takes a family to enable it and pass it on.

In April 2002 President Gordon B. Hinckley spoke about abuse in the Priesthood session of conference. He said that it was a problem in the church. I don’t have to be a prophet to tell you, it is still a problem. If you want to hear what he has to say about it, you can read the talk, Personal Worthiness to Exercise the Priesthood. Spoiler alert, he recommends counselling for the victims. Yup. If someone is sick, you send them to the doctor. If they have been abused, you send them to the therapist. It isn’t rocket science, but we try so hard to find another way. Counselling is more scary than a root canal.

Let us rip off the bandages. Let us uncover the secrets. Let us come to Him who is Mighty to Save! He can heal our families. He stands waiting for us to come to him that he may heal us. We have only to shed the lies, let go of the need to control and subject, and follow his gentle leadership. He will lead us to green pastures, and our little ones, he will succor. No family is so evil and twisted that it cannot be healed by his grace, of that I am sure.

“As I felt the spirit, I knew- I knew that I would give all my Earthly possessions to follow the Savior. I wanted to stay there forever because I knew his spirit was there beside me. I never wanted him to leave me. I felt so calm and safe. I love the gospel.”

That was just one time I bore my testimony in my journal when I was sixteen. I had just gotten back from a school trip to Temple Square in Salt Lake City when I wrote that. To anyone looking on the outside, I was a beautiful young lady with nothing to be depressed about. Inside me was a seething, tortured soul filled with self hatred.

For my Sunday School lesson yesterday, the manual suggested showing the class a journal you kept and to explain how making a record of things helps us remember important ideas and events that we would not remember if not for the record. This then relates to the importance of the scriptural record to standardize our doctrine and worship. So, I dug into my cedar chest and pulled out my journal from 1996 when I was a junior in high school.

For a long time I’ve suspected that a lot of my problems with anxiety and depression have been present since my childhood days. My journal brought that reality into laser focus. In 1996, I couldn’t be involved in enough activities. I would get up early in the morning to run three miles, then I would go to early morning choir practice, then I would stay late for play practices. When I got home, I started my homework for my high level math and science classes. Often I would stay up very late. I had several goals I was working toward including running several times each week, reading my scriptures every day, and getting all A’s in my classes. I was in concert choir, swing choir, every drama play, speech, cross country, honor society, church young women leadership, piano lessons, seminary council, and challenging classes. I was relentless in my pursuit of adequacy.

You might look at the awards I got and the honors I received and think, adequacy? Don’t you mean excellence? No, adequacy. That’s the pathology. I wasn’t striving for excellence, I was desperate to construct a persona that was adequate, that was good enough for happiness and acceptance. All I was able to see were the handful of girls that were smarter or more talented than I was. My drive to compete with them was fueled by deep feelings of inferiority. Their success was my failure. My success would stave off feelings of inadequacy for a while, but it was never enough. Occasionally, I noticed that other kids seemed happier and less stressed out than I was. I rationalized that they were just different than I was. For me, I had to drive myself. Other people could be okay with just living their lives and being average, but for some reason I was special. I was going to have a really great life, it was just going to be later. I would suffer now, and then it would all pay off down the road. The depression became unmanageable when I finally realized my happy tomorrow would never come.

I remember talking to my bishop about some of my stress and he suggested that perhaps I was involved in too many activities. He strongly recommended that I cut back on some of them. I was devastated! How could I cut out anything? If I did, I would fall behind in my relentless quest to be good enough! Surely he could see that…..after all, he knew that I wasn’t good enough to date his son. He wouldn’t give me the time of day. How was I supposed to meet and marry a good man and reach all of my righteous goals? I had to drive myself.

And so I did. I drove myself and drove myself. I was so busy I had no time to date. The boys that were interested in me didn’t have the same drive as I did. They wanted me to accept their compliments that I was beautiful and talented. I thought that if anyone liked me, there must be something wrong with them. I subsisted on little to no sleep, constantly driving myself to be better, always at the edge of my fuse, ready to explode in anger at my family members. When I did, I was consumed with greater feelings of inadequacy and searing guilt.

My junior year I did Junior Miss. It was my lifelong childhood dream to compete in Junior Miss. I felt that my entire self worth rested on this one pageant. If I could win Junior Miss, against my competitors, all of those girls I was driven to prove myself one of, I thought I could at last be worthy of love and acceptance. I didn’t cut back on any of my activities, but I just added an obsessive pursuit of the title of Junior Miss.

The night of the pageant came and I messed up my line. I had a saying that I had memorized long before that I was supposed to recite. I could have recited it in my sleep, but my nerves were shot after months and months of stress and pressure, and my mind went blank. The image of all those people looking at me, the bright light in my face, and the terror is still crystal clear……I was shaken to my core. I managed to stutter through something. As I left the stage, my friends said I looked like I had seen a ghost. The pageant was about half way finished at that point, but for me, it was over. My dream crumbled slowly before my eyes as each time I went on stage, my brain could not or would not remember the steps I had so obsessively practiced. When we all paraded out on the stage at the end and awards were given, I knew I would not likely win. I still held out hope that I would get something.

I won nothing. It felt like I had failed everything. I felt like I had wanted one thing and worked my whole life to that one thing, and there was no future. I was a failure, not at a pageant, but at being a woman. I wept. I knew that everyone was looking at me. I was supposed to clap. I was supposed to be happy. The girls who had won were my friends. I loved them. There I was with the hot spotlight on me, and everyone could see that I couldn’t keep it together. That was further proof that I was a failure. I couldn’t keep my composure like everyone else and be happy for the girls who had won. I stayed on stage for what seemed like an eternity, but the pain became so unbearable, all I wanted was my mom.

I stumbled off the stage, in my formal gown and heels, leaving the rest of the girls on stage to hug and congratulate one another. I was desperate for the comfort of my mother’s arms. I had failed! If I had even done my best it would not be so devastating. I was fundamentally inadequate and wrong. I remember thinking that I would never recover from that moment. How can we be so cruel to our children? I don’t know, but we do it.

As I have become healthier, I am better able to understand my 16 year old self and others who, like me, cannot allow ourselves or our children to be who they are, but must drive themselves and/or their children to meet some standard or ideal. Tortured by shame and a painful inferiority complex, they are unable to savor their own growth and achievement or those of their children. It is pathological, and it is everywhere.

At the football game I went to a couple of months ago, I saw the beautiful cheerleaders perform their tumbling, receive their awards, and do their thing. I saw the homecoming royalty walk onto the field. I thought of all the ways we drive ourselves and our children. It can take a terrible toll on us and on them.

I see the drive to compete and achieve in my own boys. My oldest son is determined to take the hardest classes even with dyslexia. He struggles to see his talent because in honor’s band because he is fourth chair. My second son is a high achieving student at the STEM Academy. My third son is in Gifted and Talented. I have to hope that I can keep it from getting pathological the way mine was. It is so easy to get caught up in honor rolls, sports teams, and even church callings. I remind them of their own inherent worth away from the stage and the trophies and the honors of men. I tell them to take it easy on themselves and enjoy the journey. In some ways it is much easier with boys to keep it from getting out of control.

If I had a daughter, I would never put her in a pageant. For some girls maybe it is okay, but the inherent message that women can be judged, numbered, and ranked is abhorrent to me now. Each of us is beautiful and valuable in our way, and we all deserve to be loved and valued. I would never want my daughter to think that a rhinestone crown somehow defines her.

As far as my boys, I tell them all the time that their grades and their achievements are insignificant to me in comparison with their happiness. I want them to be happy and to know that the Savior loves them. They aren’t defined by their works. The Kingdom of Heaven isn’t open to only high achievers, in fact, a lot of people are going to be surprised at who gets a mansion there. I strongly suspect that a lot of people wouldn’t buy a house in that neighborhood!

I walked into sacrament meeting on time this week!  The age of miracles has not ceased.  It was fast and testimony meeting and the Lord said, “Do it.”  So before I had time to decide that getting up in front of all the church people and revealing my vulnerability was a terrible idea, I marched up to the podium.  I thought, “What do you want me to say?”  He said, “You’ll know what to say.”

At first I tried not to meet the eyes of the people I was speaking to.  I told them about the last couple of months and my battle with depression and anxiety.   I told them about my efforts to fight off Satan’s pernicious lies about my inadequacies, that although I am a fallen woman and I fall short of his perfection, there is hope and salvation.  I testified of the Savior who has given me the strength to say the things I’ve never been able to say and do things I’ve never been able to do.  By the end of my testimony, I couldn’t see any church people; just people.  Broken people living in a fallen world, people who need the Savior just like I do.  I closed my testimony with the witness that Jesus Christ is the only path to salvation and that he loves each person in the room just as much as he loves me, and that love has changed my life.

Maybe it was just me, but it seemed that my testimony and my honesty opened the way to others who said things that perhaps they would not have dared to say.  There were a lot of real people at the podium today and it was kind of amazing.  The black brother who spoke after me, I did not recognize.  His voice sounded of Africa, but I could not be sure.  Another brother spoke.  He has known suffering.  His wife knows suffering.  He spoke of suffering and how it shapes us and that suffering doesn’t make sense especially when those who experience it are innocent of any sin.  But that suffering can bring marvelous blessings when we turn to the Savior.

That testimony spoke to me.  I talked to him after sacrament meeting and he thanked me for my testimony.  We discussed some of the thoughts that had spurred him to speak.  I asked about his wife, and he opened up a little.  I told him to have her call me if she needs someone to talk to.  I think he knew that I meant it.

I talked to another brother.  He knows my pain and we have talked many times.  He looked at me with love in his eyes.  “You were so brave!”  I don’t know if he knows that is the virtue I covet more than any other.  He couldn’t have given me a better compliment!  I was brave.  I was honest.  I was real, and I spoke for Him!  Isn’t that amazing?  I spoke for Him!  I was his handmaid, his broken handmaid.

We sang “The Spirit of God” in sacrament meeting, and I was so loud it was a little embarrassing.  My heart soared with the words and the fire that I felt inside me.  There is no better praise to God than song!  He heard my voice and it was beautiful to him.  I testified not just with my words, but my voice, my heart, and my soul that poured out.

The Spirit of God like a fire is burning,

The Latter-day glory begins to come forth!

The visions and blessings of old are returning,

And Angels are coming to visit the Earth

 

We’ll sing and we’ll SHOUT with the armies of heaven

Hosana, hosana, to God and the Lamb

And glory to them in the highest be given,

Henceforth and forever, Amen, and Amen!

It’s true!  It’s true!  He lives and he loves me.  He has redeemed my soul, and I will praise him forever.