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.