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.
