It has been so long since I’ve had the courage to write again! I only wrote four posts last year. There is a part of me that longs for the comfortable days of hiding before I was open with my story and my pain. I have to remind myself that honesty is a virtue and that pain is a universal human experience. It is only as we share our pain that we can find the strength to overcome it.
Last year was a year of tremendous growth for me. I’ve been going to therapy every week and sometimes even twice a week. My life is working for the most part and I have what I need. My circle is very small and everyone in it understands mental health. That has been so important. It turns out that quantity isn’t as important as quality in my relationships. I no longer use social media regularly. I’ve found the benefits of it are not enough to justify the trouble it causes me.
Unfortunately, over the past couple of years I have developed some kind of chronic illness. I suspect that the stress of the pandemic, the war in Ukraine, and the political upheaval has overwhelmed my body. I am going to many doctors to try to figure out what my jumbled collection of symptoms means, but in the meantime I am finding ways to cope. Healthy food, regular exercise, plenty of sleep, and lower levels of stress tend to help reduce my symptoms. There are some treatments that are helping me to function almost as well as I did before I got sick, so that is a blessing! Depression and anxiety live in the body as well as the brain and age compounds the damage.
I feel very good today, so I am grateful that! I hope to post some valuable content on my blog regularly again. I’ve spent much time ruminating about the benefits and drawbacks of making a mental health recovery public. There are benefits. I hope that my readers have learned some helpful information about mental wellness and how to live a more conscious and honest life. I hope I have modeled openness, introspection, and compassion. There are also drawbacks. Honesty can be painful and relationships built on lies are broken upon it. It isn’t the honesty that is to blame but the lies. But the lies are so beautiful! And the truth is an ugly duckling.
I hope the New Year finds you all well and warm. If you chose to join me on another year of self-discovery, let’s buckle up and get ready for the ride.
Sport’s Illustrated did a story on Shawn Bradley this month. Shawn Bradley was a larger than life figure for me growing up. I remember a New Era article showing him with his girlfriend who had to stand on a chair to dance with him. Basketball was a big deal to me and the small town I grew up in. Shawn Bradley seemed to have it all. He was likable, tall, athletic, good looking, and Mormon. He was everything I wanted in a husband and I happened to marry a man who has all of those same qualities. I heard vague stories in the background of my life about Shawn Bradley playing professional basketball, but when this Sport’s Illustrated feature came up on my Twitter feed, I was curious. Surely he was retired by now and coaching or working part-time with speaking engagements or maybe owning car dealerships. Why would Sport’s Illustrated be interested in that?
Imagine my shock when I read the article describing his life now. He and his wife of 25 years divorced. The article said that he is estranged from the six children from his first marriage. Wow. He remarried and rebuilt a life for himself including the hobby of bicycling. Unfortunately, he had a tragic biking accident a year ago that left him paralyzed. Now he is faced with rebuilding his life again as a paraplegic. My mind keeps returning to Shawn Bradley and the shocking turns his life has taken.
It has been a year since I left the church. My life is so different today than it was just a year ago. As I read the article about Shawn Bradley and the state he is in now I see stark parallels between us. When that New Era article came out, we were different people. Who could have looked down the long lens of time and seen who we would become? Who could have anticipated the strange and winding path that would lead us to where we are today in January of 2022?
This January has been different in so many ways. This month I have been thinking about the concept of self-improvement. Usually I am busy drafting New Year’s resolutions, but I have been conflicted this year. My husband is a teacher in the Elder’s Quorum now and he taught a lesson last week based on a talk by Elder Dunn called “One Percent Better.” I haven’t read or listened to the talk, but the title spurred a lot of thoughts about the concept of self-improvement and the moral imperative to improve the self that I have internalized over my lifetime. The church is hardly the only source of pressure to improve the self and be constantly striving toward self-improvement. Schools and workplaces demand it. Corporations market millions of products promised to improve the self. Beauty and hygiene commercials stoke fears and anxieties in their audience which they then promise to alleviate. Self-help books persuade us that the drab life we have can be transformed with a few easy steps. How could I help but internalize the message that the self must be constantly challenged to achievement? The problem with that is that self improvement isn’t always easy or even possible.
What about Shawn Bradley? Is he a better athlete today than he was a year ago? Did he fail to improve because he didn’t read the right self-help book? Did he fail to draft the right New Year’s resolutions? No. He fell victim to a condition that all of us will fall to sooner or later. He fell to mortality. To live in mortality is to be at constant risk of accident, illness, or death. To live in mortality is to walk the slow march to the grave. Rather than a program in self-improvement, mortality is the opposite. It is a story of decay. We don’t improve as we age. Our brains and bodies become less capable as time passes. We can work to delay this, but we can’t stop it.
Rather than become despondent in the face of this grim reality, I choose to meditate on it. What is God trying to teach me? Obviously, he doesn’t care nearly as much about self improvement as I do. If he did, he would have designed a mortal experience in which I could incrementally improve over time. Like a video game, each level I pass I would gain greater skills and freedoms. At ninety, I would be able to fly, have lightning fast reflexes, a flawless complexion, and the ability to do calculus in my head. If self improvement, at least as I have internalized the concept, were His goal, He would have designed this world differently.
Perhaps, I reasoned, the goal is to fight mortality. I will be 43 this year, but what if I could look and feel like I was 30? What if I dedicate my life to this end? I could use plastic surgery, creams, sudoku puzzles, hair dye, and exercise programs in order to cheat mortality and delay the inevitable? But, what is the purpose in fighting an enemy you will never be able to beat? And if I did, I would feel like a rabbit trying to outwit a prowling fox; constantly living in fear. Is that the life God wants for me?
I don’t have any answers right now and I find I’m okay with that. A good question takes time to answer and this one won’t likely be answered any time soon. There is one thing I do know. The way I have internalized moral self-improvement is toxic. It has stolen so much joy from my life. Christ paid the price for me. I don’t have to earn entrance into His kingdom. It is a gift. I wish I could have learned that decades ago. I have lost teeth to anxiety grinding. I have trouble with chronic inflammation and joint pain. My face is etched in worry lines. Why? Because I believed for so long that I had to earn God’s love by being more than who I was and always achieving more. I fear I have set my children’s feet on the same destructive path.
I had a conversation with my teenager as he was planning his school schedule last year. He loaded up on AP and pre-AP classes and I wondered why. Why is he so driven? Why does he surround himself with friends who are smarter and more talented than he is? Why does he push himself so hard? Will he find himself burned out and plagued with numerous health problems in twenty years? I just told him that I would love him no matter what classes he takes and I warned him that driving himself and pushing himself can have health consequences. I don’t think my words carried too much weight since he is a teenager and thinks he is invincible. I am in no rush to convince him otherwise. He has a whole lifetime to learn the sad truth. Maybe someday my words will come back to him and help him learn to love himself better.
Self improvement isn’t always a bad thing, when you know what you’re doing. My exercise program is in full swing. It helps me manage my anxiety and sleep better. It reduces my arthritis and inflammation symptoms. It especially helps my mood. When you don’t know what you’re doing, self improvement quests are a different story. When Ben and I were first married, we lived in a basement apartment underneath a couple from India who were in graduate school. The man’s name was Ravi and he owned a nice looking red Jeep Cherokee. Unfortunately, he kept making “improvements” to it. First, he attached tinted window film that was badly bubbled. Then, he taped up the car and spray painted it with aerosol cans. Each month Ben and I would cringe as our neighbor made new changes to his vehicle. The paint job was especially egregious with patchy coverage and long lines of streaky drips. I think at some point he jacked up the tires. Ravi had started out with a decent car and ended up with an eyesore. Sometimes I think my own projects of self improvement have been as amateurish and ill advised as Ravi’s. Overconfident, I was sure I knew how to improve on God’s creation. Time and experience have proved I would have been better off just letting myself become who God designed me to be. He is my creator and I need to learn first about what exactly he has created before I start trying to make changes.
I pray for Shawn Bradley, his broken family and his broken body. I pray that as we both face the challenges of mortality, that God will take us by the hand and help us rebuild. There is a plan and a purpose to our suffering and we are never alone even though it feels like it. One thing I know, there can be joy during hard times just as there are oases in the desert. Talent and skill don’t produce happiness. Self-improvement is a seductive illusion; the idea that we can craft our own destiny by sheer will is a lie that sells a lot of products but leaves us chasing rainbows and fleeing shadows. This year I want to focus on understanding myself better. Maybe then I can cast the beam out of my eye and see myself clearly before attempting my self improvements.
To all my readers, may you have a blessed new year. May you recover from your illnesses, may friends be near you to bind up your hurts, may blessings rain down on you from unexpected places. Thank you again for walking this path with me.
Parenting is a marathon. It feels great while you’re doing it, it pushes you to the mental and physical brink, and there is a let down when you stop. Of course, I’ve never run a marathon, but that’s what I imagine it’s like. This morning I got ready to send my son to summer camp for a week. As his car drove away, Pepper and I walked into an empty house. The remains of last night’s chicken nuggets and butterfly shrimp littered the kitchen counter. Baskets of laundry seemed to me to sit pondering in the silence; wondering where their owners had disappeared to.
My mind has been ruminating endlessly the past few weeks. Wesley is constantly on the computer playing Minecraft and the computer is my preferred writing place. Rather than fighting him for the computer, I’ve taken the path of least resistance. Instead of siphoning off my thoughts Dumbledore style, they are crammed in my head screaming for release. Now he’s gone and I have a few hours to myself, I’ll see what comes out.
This morning in my quiet room with only sweet Pepper there to receive my love and nurturing, I sat on my bed and looked at her gorgeous soft, shiny coat. It’s black, but I’ve learned from drawing it that there are places that are white and light grey. That’s what makes it look shiny. Things are always more complicated than they seem. The human brain, always aching for simplicity, wants to see Pepper’s fur as a single color. It is black. It isn’t midnight, moon grey, scintillating silver, or morning fog. That’s too complicated. Black and tan. She’s a chihuahua mix. But she isn’t. She’s a mutt with bloodlines that are uniquely hers; an angel crafted through time and given by God to me to comfort me in my blackest midnight. But it isn’t just black. Life is like that. It isn’t black and white.
But I understand that if I had lived a different life, I wouldn’t see the complexity either. And I would relish the simplicity. Nature is always yearning for simplicity, stasis, harmony, balance. Rivers take the smoothest and easiest path. The brain craves rest. Thinking takes energy. Seeing is work. And yet I think. And yet, I see.
And for that I will never rest. I will run the marathon. So today I paused in my frenzy of thought and prayed. It has been a long time. Sometimes it’s easier to feel the guilt and push it away than actually do the thing that will put the guilt to rest for good. Praying felt good. God reminded me that I’m not such a bad person as my brain likes to tell me I am.
My brain likes to insist that my good intentions pave my road to hell. Every glass of milk I give my child is half empty, not half full. My efforts are never enough. It is like the God in my head is a version of my teenaged son with a gift for ferreting out my every flaw and hypocritical act. The real God sees me different. And in that quiet moment, I remember that He isn’t the demanding perfectionist my brain likes to think He is. My heart poured out to Him all my shortcomings and failings and He calmed that storm with a simple thought. “Do you think I need your efforts, my child? Don’t you remember that I am the one with the loaves and the fishes? I am everything you need.”
But I need a functional government and a church community. I need assurances that my children are going to grow up to be competent adults. I need money in my bank account and friends to affirm me. I need. I need. I need. I need to understand it all right now!!
But I don’t need. I don’t need anything but Him. He leads my soul to the still water. He soothes the wounds the world has given me; the wounds I give myself. And He heals me. And I remember what I forgot. He is everything I need.
And yet we understand Him so imperfectly. We imagine Him to be a simplistic version of our own creation. We remake his image like a child with a crude crayon on brown recycled paper. We hold it up as the true God of Israel and then the sheep stray. We forget that He is not our toy soldier. He is not our mascot to be remade at our convenience. The human mind could study Him for a lifetime and never unlock His secrets. He is not of this world and no human mind can comprehend Him.
How Great is Our God? How Great is Our God? How Great, How Great is Our God?!? Tongue cannot tell, nor heart can frame. Yet we rise from the dust of our creation. We reach for Him and He reaches down to us. For a moment, He opens my eyes to see; I am more than this world. I was born for a better world. My heart is comforted in my uncomfortable; I will never fit here because I belong with Him. He and I know that and it is enough.
Last night I couldn’t sleep and I started reading old blog posts. I realized that it has been a couple of months since I posted. I’ve written a lot in my journals, but haven’t felt able to post anything. Honestly, the faith crisis I’ve been going through over the last six months has been brutal on my self-esteem. I didn’t realize how much of my faith in myself came from my church membership. The card I was carrying in my wallet that told me I was a good member of my church meant more to me than I realized until that was gone. Now I have to stand before my Savior without any of that and somehow believe that he still loves me; that I still have work to do for him just not in the way I thought.
So I’ve been tepidly attending a protestant church of some kind called Lakeside Church of Christ. It’s the church that runs the preschool that my sons attended. One of the weeks I attended I looked around at the congregation. The gathered people looked so different from the ward I used to attend. They weren’t just unfamiliar, they were different. There is a look to Mormons. That look isn’t at Lakeside. I felt the spirit whisper to me, “They are my people too.” I knew that it was true. I haven’t wanted to look outside of my tribe to find his people. I was too busy serving my kids and my ward and looking within the church to take the time to see that there are his people everywhere. My neighbors. My son’s classmates. The server at the restaurant. They are looking for his love. They are known by him, but not by me. My eyes have been opened.
It isn’t that I want to start preaching the Book of Mormon to them. I have no desire to make anyone into a Mormon. I want to listen to their stories. I want to learn from them. I want to see them the way my Savior sees them. My Lord knows there is a time to listen and a time to talk; a time for questions and a time for answers. I feel so humbled. I came to Texas thinking I knew so much. Now I feel full of questions.
As for my blog, I’ve been afraid. I’m worried I’m going to say something that will hurt someone or influence someone to leave the church or to judge me for leaving. I’ve been distracted by the need to please everyone who reads my words. Me posting again is me accepting that you are responsible for what you do with my words. This is me remembering that God knows you. He will guide you on your path just as he is guiding me. This is me finding my faith again.
The growth I have experienced in the past six months has astounded me. The pain of loss has been torturous. It has been not just in my mind but in my body. In my neck and left shoulder; in my hips and legs, in my head most of all. The struggle to manage the responsibilities of my home and family while enduring constant pain has been intense. I had an injection in my neck, but it didn’t help. Thankfully, my orthopedic pain specialist prescribed me some medication that is helping me. I also started going to the gym again which has reduced my anxiety and helped my self esteem. Better times are ahead.
I started a new book called The Cost of Discipleship by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. He was a pastor in the Lutheran church and an early vocal opponent of Adolf Hitler in Germany. He was arrested by the Gestapo and killed by order of Himmler only days before the concentration camp he was imprisoned in was freed. This book is part of his journey of discipleship in which he became conscious of his own heroic path to become a martyr for Christ; a testimony to what Christ would have done in Nazi Germany during the rise of Hitler. He was a brave and honorable German whose faith and sacrifice inspires me. During a dark time when Germany lost it’s soul to darkness, there were people like Bonhoeffer that stood firmly for humanity and truth. Germany and the German people are no longer in the grips of a madman thirsting for the blood of the Jewish people. They have taken their place in the world as an example of humanitarian aid during the refugee crisis. Somehow, I feel certain that were it not for those brave few who kept their integrity, Germany would not be the place it is today. I know the days ahead will be dark. As my nation becomes more radicalized and demagogues lie and inspire violence, who knows what the future will bring?
One thing that is certain to me, we are headed down a dark path and there doesn’t appear to be any course correction coming any time soon. Anyone who refuses to be drawn into a tribe right now is going to be left exposed to the persecution of those who belong. I am ready to take on that role. The testimony of my Savior, his courage, his teachings, his love will be my only creed. I will have faith that it will be enough. His tribe is the only tribe I want to belong to.
There isn’t only darkness. There is also an increasing awareness of human suffering. The subject of mental health is on the cover of magazines as I stand in the checkout at the grocery store, it is the topic of discussions at church, it is on everyone’s mind in a way I have never seen before. I feel like standing up and saying, “I was talking about mental health BEFORE it was cool!!” I spent a few hours watching the documentary The Me You Can’t See that was put together by Harry the Duke of Sussex and Oprah Winfrey, the queen of daytime TV. It was excellent. I wish so many people didn’t have to suffer and die before we got to this place, but I’m glad we are here. If the pandemic leads us to better understand our own minds and what we need to be happy, that can only lead to a more mentally healthy society.
I hope all of you are surviving the end of the pandemic. I hope and pray that outbreaks around the world will begin to fade and that everyone who needs treatment, both mental and physical, can get it soon. The suffering of so many for so long is hard to comprehend. I’m sure that more people are hurting than even what we know, and what we know is overwhelming.
It is hard to get a sense of where we are post pandemic, but I have a feeling that the secularization of our society is only going to accelerate. As mental health takes the stage of our consciousness, we will likely see the influence of social science swell. This trend was already happening, but will likely accelerate. This secularization will accelerate the diminishing influence of the church as new social norms are established around social science. There will be a focus on childhood trauma and perhaps an even more intense pressure on parents to be perfect. This will result in lower birth rates as people avoid parenthood and the increase in social judgement. More young people will choose not to have children. Social services to children will take priority, largely in the federal government as the Democratic Party holds increasing power in the federal government.
Radicalization of the Christian church in response to their increasingly diminishing influence will continue as we have seen with the rise of Donald Trump and other populist leaders. This radicalization and preoccupation with political influence will accelerate the loss of credibility with the rising generation who will see frantic and fearful defenders of the church with increasing disgust.
The questions we must ask ourselves are: what are the consequences of the centralization of political power into a single political party in the United States? The government is the most likely vehicle by which social justice priorities will find expression. How will society change when government becomes the primary source of moral and spiritual guidance? What form will religious worship take now that it is no longer a conscious practice? Because religion has evolved with mankind for thousands of years, is it possible for us to supplant it with modern studies, statistics, and scientific analysis that spans only a century? If religion is to remain an influence in society, what ways does it need to change? How can it prove its worth to a generation of young people who find it antiquated and irrelevant?
These are not easy questions to answer. I wish I were more certain about the future or more able to influence it. I feel like a cork floating down a stream. I hear the coming waterfall, but I’m powerless to fight the current. Trust in the Savior and faith that he hasn’t abandoned humanity is my only hope.
During a faith crisis, it’s hard to know what I even believe anymore. Sometimes I feel pretty cynical. Most of the time I understand that everything that is happening has a plan and a purpose even if I don’t see what it is right now.
“If people knew who I really was, they wouldn’t like me,” I remember telling my mom in high school. What I meant was that the only way I could be accepted was hiding behind choir dresses, drama masks, memorized lines, and stage makeup. The real naked me was flawed and broken and something to hide. This is shame.
In the scriptures, Adam and Eve only understood shame after they ate the fruit and the first thing they did was make clothing to hide their nakedness. Nakedness is a powerful symbol for shame; a concrete way my brain chose to show me last night that my battle with shame is far from over.
Nakedness. I had three naked dreams last night. I dreamed I was staying in an apartment in a sky rise. I was getting ready for bed and was totally naked before I realized that my blinds were open exposing me to the whole city. I walked to the large window to close the blinds and saw that a woman was laughing at me, pointing and taking pictures. Of course, I couldn’t get the blinds closed before she got a few shots of my humiliation.
The next dream I went to church and realized I had worn a see through dress. It was clearly inappropriate for church, but I insisted on staying at the meetings. I needed to be there regardless of how uncomfortable I was or others were with what I had worn.
The third dream, I was riding a bike. I looked down and realized I was dressed in a babydoll lingerie outfit. The wind was exposing my bare legs that were covered in thick black hair. I tried to pull the sheer fabric around my legs while balancing on the bike and I wove dangerously around the busy city road I was navigating.
Clothing hides our nakedness. It shields our vulnerability. We chose what we wear, we don’t choose how our naked body looks. We can appear to be thinner and more attractive depending on what we wear. In the scriptures the prideful wear clothing to show their wealth and put themselves above others. Clothing is also a symbol of our fallen natures. Adam and Eve didn’t wear clothes until they had transgressed. Only then were they ashamed. Only then did they need to hide.
Is nakedness a sin? It can be a crime. Indecent exposure is illegal in many places. There is almost no social taboo quite as universal as nakedness. But…..is it a sin? I don’t think there is any scriptural evidence for it being a sin. Nakedness in the scriptures is associated with poverty and profound grief. There are commandments regarding sexual interactions, but usually our fears about nakedness and dreams about nakedness are not about sexual sin, they are about shame. It isn’t doing wrong, it’s being wrong. It isn’t disobeying God’s commandments, it is about disobeying social conventions and facing the disdain and judgement of others.
So what do my shame dreams mean? I read this excellent article this morning that analyzes naked dreams with the Jungian method. Jung happens to be one of my favorite people ever, so it had to be good! You can read it here. Basically, the naked or semi-naked me in my dreams is symbolic of the vulnerability I feel at showing my authentic self on this blog. The real me. No masks, degrees, costumes, or stage lighting. No memorized lines, scripts, or coaches to correct me.
For the people reading this, I don’t think you have any idea how difficult this is for me to do. I am a fairly good writer, but what I have to say is so profoundly naked. Each time I write I find that I care a little bit less about how people see me. Each time I bring my messages back to the Savior I remember that only as I transform my fear into faith and fear only Him, I become free. Free to be the woman he wants me to be and His true handmaid.
I wish I could tell my dream self to blow that woman a kiss out of my apartment window. Let her post my unashamed face on her instagram if she wants! Better than feeling humiliated for doing something stupid that everyone does sometimes. I wish that I could tell my dream self to wear that transparent dress like a boss. It is going to be the new fashion in Relief Society soon. I wish I could tell my dream self to own those hairy legs. Eve’s legs were most likely hairy and Adam didn’t care. Neither did God.
In the end it isn’t going to matter whether or not I pleased other people. It will matter whether or not I please my Master. He once said in the scriptures, you can’t serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or hold to the one and despise the other. You can’t serve God and mammon. He’s saying, you can’t please both. You can’t serve both. In this life, you have to choose. This is me choosing Him and writing my testimony another day, owning my nakedness and brokenness before God.
I know that He lives. I know that His power is real. There is nothing that is impossible to Him and I will praise his name all the days of my life. I fear not what man can do, for in Him is my trust. He is my rock and my salvation and through Him I will be saved. Though I be naked, yet He has put a royal robe around my shoulders and in Him I am not ashamed.
“It’s all my fault,” I explained, tears running down my face. I could hardly open my mouth. It took too much effort. Laying in bed, I couldn’t even wipe the tears from my face as they dripped from my catatonic eyes to the pillow. “I’ll never write on my blog again. All I do is hurt people. I’m broken.” And I believed it. I wouldn’t be able to care for my kids. I wouldn’t be able to feed myself. The world lay on top of my chest.
“That makes me so mad,” Ben said calmly. He is always calm. I love and hate that about him. My mind is a tempest and his is a calm summer’s day. I listened to him talk about the good I do and how beautiful I am. It seemed as though he was talking about someone else. “The Savior hurt people too,” he said. “Yeah, but he was the Savior. I’m just broken me,” I said despondently. I thought for a few moments. I am just broken me. Am I better than he was? Can I live my life without hurting anyone when even the Son of God could not? He knows I am broken. He knows my limitations. He also knows that I’m not to blame for the problems of a fallen world. The weight on my chest is not fair. The words I speak are mine and I speak the truth. If the truth hurts someone, I am not to blame. And so I got out of bed. I’m here to write again. My truth and my testimony from my broken mouth.
Last night I said the words I thought I would never say. “I think I need to go to the mental hospital.” Suicidal thoughts were swirling in my brain like sharp razor blades in a clothes dryer. For hours and hours I had batted them away, distracted myself, used self-care, and read uplifting material. Nothing helped. I knew if something didn’t change I would act on my thoughts. I sat on the couch with hardly the energy to blink my eyes as I watched my Austin play happily with his brothers. I wrote a piece, but I haven’t posted it yet. It is about what happens to children when they loose their mothers. What would he do without me? How could I do that to him, knowing what it would do to him? And yet a person can only hold up under torture for so long. Everyone has their limits.
Ben knew how bad it would have to be for me to be willing to go back to that place. I wouldn’t go back to Sundance. I would find a better place. Maybe they could help me. Maybe I wouldn’t feel this pain anymore. Ben gave me a priesthood blessing. He cast out Satan. He did what I didn’t have the strength to do. I have had such blessings many times before. It is like waves of power, like a nuclear blast of light. Satan was gone. I was blessed to have the robe of peace around my shoulders, and I felt it warm around my frigid body. I took a sedative and went to sleep. Satan is gone, but his lies still have to be refuted. No one can do that but me. That’s why I’m here.
“You shouldn’t write these things. They are sacred. A blog is not the place for such things,” Satan whispers. The day is coming when all blogs will be silent. The day is not far distant when cell phones and google searches and Facebook posts will vanish away. Until that day, I will testify to as many people as I can. Satan is real. His power is real. All is not well in Zion. Our houses need to be set in order. The prophecies of his holy prophets are coming to pass. The sins we hide will not be hidden forever. It is up to us to find the Savior. The sorrow I feel and the enemy I fight will be yours to fight before he comes. Do you have what you need? There is a time when sacred things must be shared. We must help one another find the Master before it is too late.
The Master said, “Do men light a candle and put it under a bushel? No, but on a candlestick that it giveth light to all that are in the house.” Do I know that perhaps by putting these things on a public blog that I risk casting pearls before swine? Yes. Even the Son of God was judged by men to “have a devil” which I take to mean a mental illness. They judged his wisdom as foolishness and they tortured and murdered him. God the Father still sent him. Was he casting his pearl before the swine? I do what I do and I say what I say because I am His handmaid. He tells me to write and I will write. He tells me to testify and I will testify. I am not to blame for your pain at my words. Learn from them. Find the Savior, for he is Mighty to Save.
Sometimes the pain is so intense that words just can’t describe. Sometimes the yuck just keeps coming and tears and tissues won’t wash it away. This kind of pain doesn’t yield to pills or clever maxims. Prayers don’t make it go away.
Wesley came down from playing his Wii game to find me drowning in my tears. His face screwed up in anger and pain, he said, “I don’t want anybody hurting my mommy!!” I hugged him and told him it would be okay. I told him I had been reading about Jesus. He went around doing good. He healed people like me, forgotten, broken people that no one could help. He can help me. He will help me.
I know that he suffered in the garden. He bled for me. He cared for me enough to die for me. He knows my burden and he feels my pain with me. I can’t write what happened or the source of my pain. I’ll just tell a story, like the Savior used to do.
Once upon a time there was a gardener who only liked roses.One day in her garden, a dandelion grew.She thought it was a rose until one day it bloomed and it was a bright yellow flower. It was different and she didn’t like it.
The gardener said, “Go away, you don’t fit in the garden box.”
The dandelion said, “I’m a flower, God made me like this.”
The gardener said, “Only roses can live here. Be a rose, then you can stay.”
“Roses are big and beautiful and expensive,” the dandelion insisted, “They have thorns.I am free. I have no thorns.I am yours, God sent me to you.I have many petals like the rose. Look at me and see. I’m beautiful too, God sent me to you.”
“You aren’t beautiful,” scolds the gardener, “You are a weed, and no one likes you.”
“Look at the children,” the dandelion said sadly.“They love me.”Tears dropped like dew.
“Children don’t count,” the gardener said impatiently.“Only important people matter. And important flowers.You can change,” insisted the gardener.“If you become a rose, you can stay and I will love you.”
The dandelion died of shame and a broken heart that day, but God had mercy on her.He turned her yellow petals into white flying seeds that the gardener’s children blew all around and now they grow in the grass and the fields and the roadsides where unimportant people can love them.
Someday I hope in heaven that I have a garden full of dandelions. I’ve always loved them. They are beautiful to everyone until they grow up to learn that they aren’t supposed to be beautiful. Because I never grew up, they will always be beautiful to me. I see myself in them.