Friendship

I’m not superstitious.  At all.  I don’t worry about black cats, walking under ladders or opening umbrellas in the house.  I don’t take everything and anything as a sign from the universe of my fate or destiny.  I’m open-minded, but I’m a skeptic at heart.  I rarely participate in random fact-predicting activities. It doesn’t bother me that such quizzes exist.  I remember fondly playing games as a child, folded paper opening and closing on the tips of my fingers that would accurately predict my entire future (husband, number of kids, career and wealth).  But as a grown up, it’s rare for me to participate in such things.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself clicking on a Facebook link a year ago that would choose my word for the coming year.  I had experienced a couple of rough months leading up to the commencement of 2016 and I looked forward to the New Year with great anticipation.  I kept my New Year’s resolution simple: joy and purpose.  I already lead a somewhat purposeful life, but I wanted to focus on activities that brought joy to me and to others.  That was it.  I thought for sure when I took the quiz, the word joy or happiness or maybe even adventure would pop up.  That would be the theme of my year.  I clicked with nervous excitement, anxiously awaiting my word.  It was going to be something super cool.  Maybe a word I’d have to look up in the dictionary.  Oh, how I love words and definitions!  For a knowledge-craving human, the idea of a word unique to me that could help shape my future was second only to Christmas!  And then, like an addicted gambler watching the slot machine in Vegas, I looked up in surprise.  FRIENDSHIP.  My word was friendship?

Hmm...strange.  I wasn’t disappointed.  But I was surprised.  Friendship has ALWAYS been a big part of my life.  It's not new or unique or a word that should define a year.  Friendship is simply part of who I am.  Stupid test!  I lost three minutes of my life taking that stupid test.   

Now, before you decide I'm a complete jerk for hating my fortune-predicting word, let me make myself clear.  I consider myself beyond lucky when it comes to friends.  In the friendship department, I hit the freaking jackpot!  Seriously!  I'm not even sort of kidding.  Somehow, I have always found myself surrounded by individuals who uplift, inspire and support me.  I’m certain much of it is a blessing from the Lord - a tender mercy - that has carried me through my life.  I love my friends.  I cherish those friendships.  I laugh when I think of the diversity of the people near and dear to me.  My friends are eclectic.  They range greatly in age, background and interests, but every single one of them holds valuable real estate in the deepest parts of my heart.  Friendship is a big deal to me.  But really?  My word for the year?  Come on computer!  Work a little harder. 

Last January, I never could have predicted that my couple of rough months in November and December 2015 would be a walk in the park compared to the torrential downpour of 2016.  My “determined optimism” and “sometimes life can be hard but I can do hard things” moments eventually collapsed and sent me into a downward spiral.  I have emerged several times from that whirlpool, gasping for air but alive.  However, keeping my head above water in the midst of incredible storms has proven more than I could do alone.  It was in those moments that the word FRIENDSHIP – my own personal word of the year – took on new meaning for me. 

I faked it.  I hid out.  I hit rock bottom…multiple times.  Not good!  I wrestled with life and faith and reality.  It was rough.  And when I thought I could survive no longer, a friend would reach out in my time of need.  There are good people everywhere and I can’t possibly name everyone who came to my aid in one way or another this past year.  What I can say is that everyone needs at least one friend like that.  The kind of friend you can call in the middle of the night when you’re stranded and alone who will drop everything and run.  The kind of friend you can text and ask for prayers or words of encouragement when your low reaches lower than you ever imagined possible – an embarrassing and shocking low that finds you wishing out loud that a bus will run you over.  Literally.  Everyone needs a friend with whom you find comfort sitting in silence or talking into the wee hours of the night. A friend with whom you can shed your defensive armor, exposing your deepest fears, weaknesses and insecurities, and still feel safe and loved.  The kind of friend who witnesses your ugly cry reach a new level of intensity yet still manages to see the beauty of your soul. 

I have had friends bring me meals, drive me to appointments when I couldn’t drive with my broken foot, take my children for play dates and outings of all kinds, lend me a car when I could drive again but the car, the van or both had broken down, run errands for me, lend me ingredients or materials I needed at a moment’s notice, bring me chocolate, a Fiiz, a book or a movie to brighten my day, convince me to go shopping in pajama pants and a sweatshirt because I needed to get out of the house and do something, pray for me, fast with me, drag me to the temple…     
There is no possible way to fully document the love and support I have received during my year of FRIENDSHIP!  The only thing I can attempt to do is say thank you.  At the risk of sounding sappy and possibly busting into lyrics from The Golden Girls theme song, I humbly and sincerely say, “Thank you for being a friend!”

The words of scripture flood my mind as I ponder.  “…Peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment.  And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high; thou shalt triumph over all thy foes.  Thy friends do stand by thee, and they shall hail thee again with warm hearts and friendly hands” (D&C 121:7-9). 

Yes!  That’s exactly what I have experienced.  Friendship.  My friends stood by me with warm hearts and friendly hands.  What an incredible blessing!

The word friendship swirls around and around in my mind as words from the scriptures once again emerge from my memory.  “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13).  The reality of the love from the Ultimate Friend to us all hits me in an instant.  Despite the storm – the tempest tossed – I found peace.  I caught glimpses of hope in the midst of despair.  That hope came in the form of a newborn babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.  Without Him, I would be lost.  We would all be lost.  This year, I found healing for deep wounds I thought would not be possible in this lifetime.  Healing made possible through the Atonement of Jesus Christ.  Healing made possible because Jesus Christ was WILLING and ABLE to lay down his life for his friends.  I am filled with emotion as I ponder my PERFECT FRIEND.  My brain questions the unfairness of a friendship so lop-sided in nature.  My brow furrows.  And then I cringe. My heart aches as I imagine the pain He suffered because of my sins.  A lump forms in my throat as I realize the pain and afflictions Christ willingly carried so He would know PERFECTLY how to succor me.  Pain He took upon himself so he could run to me and comfort me in my time of need.  My chest feels heavy and my breathing slows.  I gasp as the magnitude of it all strikes me like a bolt of lightning.  What felt like a trivial word becomes deeper understanding and appreciation for the many layers of love and friendship offered to me daily.  Emotion washes over me once again and I pause momentarily as I seek to define it.  Gratitude.  It’s the only word that comes.  I am overwhelmed with a feeling of GRATITUDE.  Gratitude for friendship, a word I now recognize perfectly describes the year 2016 for me. 

Dylan's Duck: A Story of Heartache and Healing

Dylan has been working on a local farm for a few months now.  He’s learned a lot about quail, ducks, chickens, rabbits and dogs.  He’s always loved animals, but it’s truly become a passion of his this year.  He has such a tender heart and has had to learn to separate in his mind animals raised for meat and animals raised as pets.  That’s been a difficult, but good lesson for him to learn.

Years ago, I pictured myself living on a farm.  I, too, had a great love for animals and all things outdoors as a child.  Unfortunately, the more realistic, down-to-earth mother in me has become a bit more practical.  I want a nicely kept suburban yard and all that entails.  Even owning one dog has been a bit of a sacrifice.  So when Dylan approached me about purchasing ducks, I was reluctant.  After a lot of thought, Marcos and I decided it was manageable and proceeded with the duck purchase as well as putting some pretty firm boundaries for raising ducks in place. 

Dylan has been AMAZING with his ducks!  They quickly became like babies to him.  He cares for them daily without being asked.  They follow him around like he’s the mother duck.  He has come to truly love his little ducklings. 

Last Monday, I was in making dinner.  I had let the ducks out of their fenced in area to free range and catch some extra bugs around the yard.  Dexter (our schnauzer) was in the basement locked in the boys’ room.  Preston and Marissa were playing and I had just taken Caleb up to the tub.  Dylan looked out the window and noticed there were only seven ducks instead of eight.  This is extremely unusual as they are NEVER apart.  He counted them a couple times and was sure there were only seven.  I thought he must be wrong, but a tinge of fear crept into my heart and settled as a lump in my throat as Dylan rushed outside in a state of panic.  It was the worst of the worst.  Dexter had somehow been let out and had attacked one of the ducks.  Dylan was angry and emotional as he pulled his trusted and loyal dog from his beloved duckling. 

My heart sunk as I rushed to the duck to assess the damage.  The first thing I saw was blood dripping down his beak.  “Oh no!”  I grabbed the dog and brought him in the house as poor Dylan screamed and cried and let out the depths of his emotion without holding anything back.  This child is intense.  He always has been.  It’s a great gift.  It can also be a difficult challenge to help him learn to manage the intensity of his emotions.  

The chaos of the moment was indescribable:  toddler in the bathtub, dinner on the stove, two children roaming the neighborhood trying to get in a few extra minutes of playtime, deep sadness and explosive anger from a grieving child confused about the situation and a nervous husband weighing his options (Should he hit the duck over the head and put her out of her misery or allow her to suffer while Dylan holds her?  Should he allow Dylan to leave on his bike to let off steam or worry about what might happen to him if he leaves the house alone in his current state of mind?)  I went into crisis mode.  I quickly bathed Caleb and got him dressed so I could be present for the duck experience.  Preston kept talking about how glad he was that it wasn’t Donald Quack (his favorite duck) who Dexter had attacked (not exactly helpful but Preston's own way of expressing sadness and relief).  Marissa, my medically savvy curious little nurturer, was convinced that pouring water on the wound would help so she ran to fill her water bottle.  Dylan sat on the lawn holding his precious duck as her breaths became slow and shallow.  The image of my boy holding his bleeding duck in his arms, gently lifting her neck and head and speaking tenderly to her as she lived her last moments on this earth will forever remain etched in my mind.  It was painful but beautiful to witness.  He loves so deeply!  He cares so much!  My little boy – the mama duck – was grieving for his lost duckling.  And I was grieving for my boy.  

“The Golden One” took her last breath and Dylan held her, spoke to her and sat in silence.  After a while, Marcos found a spot behind the shed and dug a shallow grave.  The gratitude I felt for my husband at that moment is difficult to describe.  I pride myself on being a pretty tough chick.  It’s a badge of honor I’ve worn for years.  I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing.  I consider it a gift that others trust me and feel safe and protected around me.  I have a roaring mama bear instinct and would fight to the death to defend my own cubs (or others in trouble).  But I do recognize that my tough girl persona has often been a mask behind which I have hidden to protect myself from feeling weak or vulnerable.  I’m working on pulling back the masks of my youth and becoming more authentic as an adult – embracing my strengths and God-given talents and abilities, recognizing my weaknesses and human frailties…and loving myself for all of the above.  As I thought about my anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better, tough chick, girl power attitude, I smiled with deep appreciation for the man standing by my side ready and willing to take care of his family in good times and in bad.  I couldn’t help but pause in awe and reverence as I cherished this sacred moment.  It’s okay to need help, Maria.  It’s okay to not do everything yourself.  It’s okay that Marcos is here for Dylan.  It’s okay that you aren’t the one digging that grave.  It’s a good thing, a really good thing.     

That night was full of emotion.  A few times Dylan began to yell in anger and hatred for the dog.  Marcos tried to tell him to calm down.  Anger is a powerful emotion that we’ve tried to help Dylan manage throughout his life.  This time, however, I could see beyond the anger.  I could see his grief and pain. 

Preston is part of a book club for 8-11 year old boys.  In September, they read, “Where the Red Fern Grows.”  We were just finishing reading the final pages in the book as a family when we had our duck experience.  Words from the pages of the book went swirling through my mind.

“I don’t believe in prayers any more,” I said.  “I prayed for my dogs, and now look, both of them are dead.” 

Mama was silent for a moment; then, in a gentle voice, she said, “Billy, sometimes it’s hard to believe that things like this can happen, but there’s always an answer.  When you’re older, you’ll understand better.” 

“No, I won’t,” I said.  I don’t care if I’m a hundred years old, I’ll never understand why my dogs had to die.”

As if she were talking to someone far away, I heard her say in a low voice, “I don’t know what to say.  I can’t seem to find the right words.” 

Looking up to her face, I saw that her eyes were flooded with tears.

“Mama, please don’t cry,” I said.  “I didn’t mean what I said.” 

“I know you didn’t,” she said, as she squeezed me up tight.  “It’s just your way of fighting back.” 

I didn’t know what to do or what to say.  So I held him.  I held my boy and I cried with him.  I told him it was okay to feel sad, and that he didn’t need to hide behind anger.  I told him he would experience anger as well, but that the anger he felt most likely came from pain he experienced because of the loss of his duckling, an animal he had loved and cared for since she was 3 days old.  I told him that all those emotions were part of grieving and it was okay to allow himself to feel them.  I expressed my desire to make things better and my incredible sadness that I couldn’t take the pain away.  I told him I would be there to sit with him and love and support him through his grief.  It was tough.  Dylan held me tight.  He uttered words rarely heard from the mouth of a 12-year-old boy, “I need my mommy!  I’m so sad!  I loved my duck so much!  I was like her mama.  She was my favorite and I wasn’t there to protect her.  Why did Dexter do that?  Why did he kill her?  I hate him!”  He described his deep sadness when he spoke of the other ducks standing by the fence looking for their lost sister.  He felt pain as he looked to the other ducklings and saw their confusion and experienced their loss with them.  My mind again echoed words from “Where the Red Fern Grows” as I internalized the lessons from Billy and his mother. 

After she had tucked me in, she sat on the bed for a while. As if she were talking to the darkness, I heard her say, “If only there were some way I could help – something I could do.” 

“No one can help, Mama,” I said.  “No one can bring my dogs back.” 

“I know,” she said, as she got up to leave the room, “but there must be something – there just has to be.” 

I wanted so many times that night to fix the problem.  I rushed to the duck hoping and praying I could patch her up and everything would be okay again.  I wished I could rewind time and figure out how the dog managed to get out back when he had been behind three closed doors only moments before.  I wanted to swallow my emotions and solve the problem.  I did not want to deal with this much pain.  I did not want to experience it fully.  The next day as I reflected on our experience, I realized how uncomfortable I am with grief and sorrow.  I want to make it go away.  I want to fix it.  I want to make it better.  Once again, the words of Billy’s mother came to mind.

”Do you feel better now?” she asked.  “It still hurts, Mama,” I said, as I buried my face in her dress, “but I do feel a little better.” 

“I’m glad,” she said, as she patted my head.  “ I don’t like to see my little boy hurt like this.” 

Oh my goodness!  I could not believe how true those words were to me.  It’s natural to want to help others feel better when they are grieving.  It’s normal to want to ease the pain of others.  But we border on unhealthy when we are unable to sit with another person through intense emotions.  

Life lessons are never easy.  In this particular case, my son learned he could allow himself to feel grief.  He learned his mom and dad were there for him and would weep with him through the process.  He learned parents can’t always take the pain away, but that having someone to grieve with you brings its own type of healing.  

I learned that showing up and being present is a really big deal.  My own roller coaster ride this past year has created a lack of trust in my own reactions to all sorts of emotions in different situations.  It’s caused me to run and hide and avoid a lot of things.  Unfortunately, when dealing with my own emotions, I quickly search for the easiest way out – usually ignoring the emotion or attempting to numb the pain.  With this experience, I had no choice.  I could either walk away from my child because the emotion was too much to handle or I could sit with him and be present.  I could choose to experience the emotion with him.  Thankfully, I chose the latter.  It was not easy.  Even a week later, the pain tugs at the strings of my heart and I grimace as I attempt to shield myself from the moment.  But I didn’t run.  I didn’t hide.  I was there for Dylan when he needed me most.  It was extremely difficult.  It was emotionally exhausting.  But it was important.  It was powerful.  It was healing.    

I pondered the ups and downs of this personal experience and turned to the scriptures for solace.  At a time when I am unable to “make it better” for my son, I found peace and comfort in the words of Isaiah.
“…Surely [Christ] hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows…”  (Isaiah 53:4).  Powerful words.  A tender mercy.

My Abinadi Moment

A few months ago, I had the impression I was supposed to speak in church.  I was still in the midst of a deep depression, family crisis, physical ailments and lingering emotional wounds.  I was a fragile soul who had barely been surviving for months.  My first thought was, “You’ve got to be kidding me, right?  My life is in shambles!  I’m the LAST person anyone needs to hear speak right now.  I’ve hardly even attended church the past several months.  I literally cannot get out of bed most days.  This cannot be what I’m feeling.”  I skipped and jumped around the subject for weeks hoping it would go away.  Maybe I was delusional.  Perhaps I’d become so desperate for adult conversation that I’d decided public speaking was better than wasting my life away alone.  I knew better, but I attempted to logically wrestle with the prompting for weeks.  It did not go away.  The nagging sensation grew in intensity until I could stand it no longer.    

I hesitantly let my Bishop know about the feeling that kept surfacing, but assured him I actually had no desire to speak and would not be offended at all if he had other plans.  It was a noble attempt at dodging the inevitable bullet, but I was put on the schedule to speak the Sunday before girls’ camp…and I happen to be the camp director.  Oh man!  This has got to be the worst timing ever.  My super woman persona emerged to save me from a looming panic attack.  “I can prepare a talk while I get camp ready.  No worries.  I totally got this, yo!”

Although I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of speaking in sacrament meeting, I wasn’t terrified either.  The one good thing that has come from months of intense trials is my ability to rely on the Lord on a regular basis.  I have found my prayers are more heartfelt, my scripture study more productive.  I started a new journal on May 1 this year that I filled it before the end of July.  It isn’t even a “history” type of journal.  It is filled with spiritual impressions that have come to me as I read, study and ponder.  I figured with that many notes in my journal, I was bound to figure out something worthwhile to share with the members of my congregation.  “I can do this!  No problem.  The Lord wants me to give a talk the week I go to girls’ camp.  I’m sure there’s something I’m supposed to learn from all this.  And hopefully there is someone who needs to hear what I will say.” 

I sat down to write my thoughts and a basic outline for my talk.  I had a couple scriptures I had been pondering a lot that seemed like a good starting point.  I also had a couple conference talks I’d been reviewing that I thought I could use.  Once I’ve pondered a topic extensively, I am usually able to get thoughts down on paper fairly easily.  I sat down at my computer and typed out the scripture reference.  I paused for a minute and stared at the screen.  Nothing.  Um…okay.  Moving on.  I skipped down a couple lines and typed out another scripture reference I’d been pondering and sat thinking through what to say.  Silence.  Empty space.  Nothing.  My brain does not operate this way.  I have thoughts constantly flowing in and out, like waves in the ocean.  Sometimes I experience high tide and other times low tide, but there is always movement, a steady flow of informational exchange taking place. Silence during deep thought is a foreign concept to me.  “What is the world is going on here?” 

I walked away from the computer a bit confused, but grateful I hadn’t waited until the last minute to attempt to put my thoughts together.  I have plenty of time before I have to speak.  No worries.  I waited a day and tried again with different scriptures, talks and ideas as a starting point.  The SAME EXACT THING happened…on FIVE separate occasions. 

“Holy crap!  What am I going to do?  Seriously!  Who volunteers to speak in sacrament meeting and then has absolutely nothing to say?  What in the world is wrong with me?  That’s it.  I’ve had a mental breakdown and the low point is volunteering to speak in church even though I can’t get one logical thought to flow through the intricate folds of my brain.”  I had every negative thought and emotion imaginable floating through my mind.  “Really?  I’m trying to follow a spiritual prompting and this is what happens?  What am I missing here?”  I debated my options.  Do I call the Bishop and tell him I’m crazy?  Do I bail?  Is there time to sell my house and get the heck out of here before I have to face this disaster head on?  I’m not sure I’m ready to completely wing a talk in sacrament meeting and hope it all comes together well.  Yikes!

I stepped away from my computer again.  I pulled out my notes in my journal and started reading them.  There were a couple conference talks I really felt I needed to include, but somehow the ideas didn’t flow.  “Why do I keep having the impression to use these talks, but the words will not come?”  I paused to pray.  Then I paused again to listen and reflect.  Words immediately flooded my mind.  “You need to share part of your story.  Talk about humility and forgiveness.  Testify of healing – true healing – that is found through the Atonement of Jesus Christ.”  Gulp. 

In the midst of what will likely be known to me in the future as “Spring 2016: My Personal Hell on Earth,” I sought comfort, support and healing.  On one occasion, I requested a priesthood blessing and then went to the temple.  I wrestled with some very difficult issues and eventually found myself speaking to the Lord in the form of a prayer.  It was intense.  It was uncomfortable.  It was personal.  It was spiritual.  And when all was said and done, that experience brought more healing than I ever anticipated was possible.  It was the kind of experience you write in your journal and share with close friends and family.  Something you share with your children to help them with their own personal growth and development one day.  It wasn’t exactly the kind of story I would openly share with a large group of people, with the entire congregation of my Church.  YIKES!!  “Is that really what I’m supposed to do?”  I questioned the thoughts and feelings that were gaining momentum as I pondered this moment.  My stomach was in a knot and I thought I might throw up just at the idea of what was being asked of me.  “Pour out my heart and soul?  Publicly?  Really?  Talk about hurt, pain, doubt, fear, hard heartedness, faith and forgiveness? Seriously?  Do you understand how difficult that is going to be?  Stand in front of hundreds of people and testify of personal healing and a new understanding of my Savior and the Atonement?  Despite my best efforts, most weeks I haven’t been able to get myself to even attend church, let alone interact with anyone.  It was too painful, the depression too intense.  There has got to be another way.  Please let there be another way!” 

I sat down to see if I could connect the words from the talks that kept bouncing through my head and the parts of my own experience I felt needed to be shared.  The words practically fell onto the screen, with few pauses and little hesitation.  “OH NO!!  There’s my answer.  This must be what I’m supposed to say or it would not have come together so effortlessly.  Dang it!  Can’t I just talk about service or motherhood?”  Perhaps I’ll share the details of my talk in another post.  For now, the important part is to understand my discomfort speaking in sacrament meeting, my fear and anxiety about sharing something extremely personal with a large group, and the added stress I felt from the less-than-ideal timing from being assigned to speak a few days before I left for girls’ camp.  But I was determined to do what was asked of me.  My internal conversation with my Maker continued.  “I may not know why, but I trust that there is a purpose behind this, Lord, and I’m willing to do what you ask of me.”  Nephi’s words echoed in my mind, “…I know that [God] loveth his children; nevertheless, I do not know the meaning of all things” (1 Nephi 11:17).  Deep breath.  “Okay.  I’ll share whatever you need me to share.  If someone needs to hear the words I’m going to speak, I will do so with courage."

The next day, I was not well.  My body was achy.  I stayed in bed most of the day thinking I could sleep it off.  I was wrong.  I woke up the following day and could barely swallow.   I tested positive for strep throat, which hit me like a freight train.  My temperature fluctuated between 101 degrees with medicine and 104 degrees when the medicine wore off.  Physically speaking, I’m a pretty tough chick.  When I say I’m ill, it’s for real.  I take aches and pains in stride and rarely complain about physical ailments.  This was rough.  I was MISERABLE!!  I spent four days in bed – four days immediately preceding the date I was scheduled to speak in sacrament meeting...and less than a week before I would be leaving for girls’ camp.  YIKES!  What am I going to do?  I let my bishop know I was very ill, but was hoping to be able to speak still.  I had been on an antibiotic for three days already.  Honestly!  At some point I should start to feel better, right?

Sunday morning I was still not feeling great, but I had the distinct impression that I needed to give my talk anyway.  “Really?  You’ve got to be kidding me, Lord.  Why?”  Sigh.  Pause.  “Never mind.  It doesn’t matter why.  I know.  I remember.  ‘Your ways are higher than my ways and your thoughts are higher than my thoughts’ (Isaiah 15:8-9).  I don’t need to know why.  I’ll go.  I’ll do it.  I can physically endure an hour.”  I stood and delivered my talk.  It was surreal.  I barely remember most of it.  Between not feeling well and the emotional and spiritual intensity of the experience itself, it resembled an out-of-body experience.  I knew I was standing there delivering my talk, but that’s all I remember.  I could barely even glance up at the clock.  In my mind, time stood still.  It didn’t matter how long it had been or how long it took to complete my talk.  I had to speak the words of my heart and then sit down. 

I went home and crashed.  I was physically, spiritually and emotionally exhausted!  But I knew I’d done what the Lord had asked me to do.  And that was enough.  It was a rare experience for an overanalyzing perfectionist.  But it felt good. 

A few days later I left for girls’ camp.  My voice was GONE.  “Really?  This is so unfair!  All this hard work and I don't even get to enjoy myself at camp?”  Anyone who has experienced girls’ camp with me knows what a big deal this temporary disability was for me.  I LOVE engaging with the girls, singing, dancing, playing games and being just a bit more rambunctious than I probably should.  My internal dialog once again became a prayer.  “Why?  Why am I even here?  Why was I given this calling if I can’t even fulfill it?  I don’t understand.”  Again the impression came that I didn’t need to understand.  My Father in Heaven was aware of me.  He knew everything I was experiencing.  He cared.  He would be by my side.  But he needed me to experience this.  There was a reason for my being at camp and all that mattered was that I showed up and did whatever the Spirit lead me to do. 

I had to lean on other leaders to help more than my independent nature prefers.  I had to delegate a lot of tasks I had planned on doing myself.  I saved my voice as much as possible for the final night when I would lead the devotional and set the tone for the testimony meeting.  There were tender mercies along the way.  I was blessed with enough physical strength to be able to hike with the girls, play keep away and football, and thanks to the mischievous encouragement of our river rafting guide, I even became the pirate who jumped ship to start a brawl with the other raft from our group, pushing girls and leaders into the river during a major lull in the rapids.  Yep!  Girls’ camp was still memorable, but it was not the experience I had anticipated.  I stood the final night using all the power my voice could muster and bore powerful testimony.  Our theme for girls’ camp was the Olympics.  I had so many words prepared, but found myself floundering looking down at my notes.  And then it hit me.  I knew what I needed to say.  I set down my notes and spoke with the guidance of the Holy Ghost.  It was extremely powerful!  I don’t remember a lot of what I said, but inside I felt strength and courage flow through me as the EXACT WORDS that needed to be spoken came to my mind and were delivered with the full emotion of my heart and soul. For the second time in a week, I stood to bare powerful testimony despite the turmoil I was personally experiencing.  It wasn’t an easy week.  But it was amazing! 

When I was home and my health had improved, I reflected on the month of June.  The spring had been one trial after another and by June I thought I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.  I was going to be okay.  I could get through this after all and still fulfill my calling as camp director.  Instead, my desire to serve faithfully and do what was asked of me was met with even greater opposition.  Why?  Okay, even though I recognize the Lord has a plan for me, I still often ponder why.  I felt at peace with my contribution in both situations.  Neither experience was what I had hoped or planned, but I showed up anyway and did what I felt the Lord required of me.  But I still wondered why.  Why did I need these experiences?  What was I supposed to learn?  As I pondered these questions, the name Abinadi popped into my head.  For those who may not know, Abinadi is a prophet in the Book of Mormon who testified under extremely difficult circumstances.  He was bound, scourged and eventually suffered death by fire.  If you want more information, this is a good talk that tells the story of Abinadi.   

“Abinadi?  Really?  I didn’t suffer death by fire.  I may have testified around the fire at girls’ camp but that is far from an Abinadi-like experience.”  As I sat pondering, I was filled with light and truth.  Abinadi was asked to testify under extremely difficult circumstances.  He didn’t know if he would live or die, but he knew what the Lord had asked of him.  He HAD to deliver his message.  After that, nothing else mattered.  He didn’t know why.  And he didn’t get to see or understand the bigger picture.  He didn’t need to.  He trusted the Lord and was willing to obey, even though his situation was extremely difficult. 

One of the priests of King Noah was named Alma.  He heard the words of Abinadi and believed him.  He was converted and gained a testimony of Jesus Christ.  He plead with King Noah to let Abinadi go.  Instead, Alma was cast out and the priests of King Noah were sent to slay him.  King Noah had Abinadi killed, suffering death by fire.  Alma escaped.  He lived in the wilderness and taught and baptized others.  Alma became an incredible prophet and lead his people in truth and righteousness.  But Abinadi didn’t know that.  He didn’t know Alma would be converted by his words.  He just knew the Lord needed him to testify boldly in the midst of great trials and that his life would be spared until he was able to deliver his message.

I like stories.  Scratch that.  I LOVE stories!  I am moved by stories!  I feel connected to the characters I read about or hear delivered by a gifted storyteller.  But I like to know the ending.  Cliffhangers are painful!  In life, I find myself searching for the rest of the story.  I want to know the ending.  I want to know why.  I am inquisitive.  I ask who, what, where, why and how…a lot.  It’s the science loving part of my quirky personality.  Sometimes I find answers.  Other times I don’t.  In this case, I didn’t.  I still don’t know why.  Why in the midst of my greatest trials was I asked to testify before so many people that I know and love?  And even after agreeing to do so, why did trials continue to bombard me, like the ball inside a pinball machine ricocheting wildly and unpredictably until it discovers a weak spot to penetrate?  I could have given a talk in sacrament meeting a month later.  Another leader could easily have continued the work I had done for girls’ camp.  Then why?  I do not know.  The one thing I am certain of is that the Lord asked me to do just that, to testify boldly despite the extreme difficulties I was facing.  He needed me to learn to lean on Him more.  He needed me to remember that His ways are greater than mine and to gain greater trust in his ability to lead and direct me.  Did my words mean something to someone or was it simply an intense growth experience for me?  I may never know.  I’ve had to make peace with that.  It doesn’t matter why.  What matters is that I stood strong.  Despite suffering all kinds of afflictions – metaphorically being bound and scourged – I accomplished what was asked of me.  Even as the flames engulfed me, I felt power from the Lord to sustain me until my message had been delivered.  I experienced faith, courage and determination, and in so doing was given a glimpse into the reality of a truly remarkable prophet named Abinadi.  The intensity didn’t last, but I will never forget the lessons learned during my own personal Abinadi moment.