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.     

Gratitude

Human behavior is often predictable.  Every once in awhile, however, I am pleasantly surprised when I witness a person react to a certain situation.  Occasionally that person is me.

Last week, I was given tickets to attend a conference.  It was fairly last minute, but I was excited.  Thankfully, even though we didn't have a lot of notice, Marcos was able to take a couple days off work to stay with the kids so I could attend.  The conference took place on Thursday, Friday and Saturday.  I had a great time and learned a lot!  Friday Marcos brought the kids on the Front Runner to see me.  It was a complete surprise!  The whole family walked in the door JUST as we broke for lunch.  The timing was PERFECT!  The kids were a little tired and whiney as we trekked around downtown searching for a place to eat.  The younger two were fighting over who wanted me to carry them (Marcos forgot a stroller).  But...it was good.  I enjoyed myself and felt renewed.

Saturday I woke up and was exhausted.  I don't know if it was two full days away from the kids, sitting still most of the day or just late nights and early mornings, but it caught up to me.  Dylan had a presentation for the co-op he participated in this year and needed a little help to go over a few things, and our "to do" list at home was growing in size.  I debated it back and forth, but ended up missing the final day of the conference to help my family.  Good, better, best.  Saturday, being a mom was BEST.  We got the swamp cooler set up and Dylan finished reviewing some things for his presentation.  Marcos took Dylan early to help set up.  I brought the younger three kids and was a few minutes late by the time I got everyone cleaned up and dressed.  But...I made it in time for everything but the opening song.  Wa-hoo!

Dylan did such a great job and it was fun to see the other kids and the progress they have made.  It's been such a good group for Dylan!  He presented on what they learned about cells in their botany and cytology class, played his piano piece, and recited the Declaration of Independence with his class.  He also discussed the business they created growing and selling plants in their permaculture class.  The whole thing was great!  I got teary eyed as the closing song, "Gethsemane" was sung by one of the girls in the group.  It was BEAUTIFUL!  The kids thanked their teacher at the end.  Dylan cried as he told of her love for him and thanked her for helping him fight his battles with anger and sadness as his family experienced many difficulties the last few months.  It was touching!

The students all went into the kitchen to bring out the refreshments.  I hugged Dylan as he walked over to me.  It was a tender mother/son moment!  Caleb saw us and walked towards me with a cookie in his hand.  I picked him up to join our big group hug and he PUKED all over both me and Dylan.  Gasp.  "Oh No!"  I did my best to keep the vomit contained as I rushed down the hall to find a bathroom.  I didn't realize Dylan had it all down his shirt as well.  I didn't have time to assess the situation.  I was in damage-control mode.  Thankfully both Marcos and my mom were there to clean up in the cultural hall.  I don't want to make this too detailed as I know many of my friends and family are squeamish, but this is THE WORST vomit experience I have had with any of my four children.  When I picked him up, half my hair had fallen to the front.  There was puke on my shirt, all the way DOWN my shirt, on my hair and on my pants.  Blech!  SO DISGUSTING!

My first internal thought was, "Oh NO!  What are we going to do?" followed immediately by, "I'm so sorry, people!  I had no idea he was sick or I would not have brought him."  I try to steer clear of crowds when I know we're germ-infested and just the idea of exposing the world to the vomit plague made me queasy.  I set Caleb down on the bathroom floor to pull myself together and formulate a plan.  Preston had followed us down the hall and was sitting outside the door complaining about the disgusting smell.  SUPER HELPFUL!  I told him to run to the garbage can or toilet if he thought the smell was going to make him throw up as well.  YIKES!!  Let's not turn this vomiting episode into a chain reaction of epic proportions!  That would be bad!  Really bad!!  And then...a wave of gratitude hit me.  "I'm so glad I got to see Dylan's program!  I am so grateful this happened AFTER the program finished."  Smile.  Deep breath.  I took off Caleb's shorts and shirt and attempted to rinse and ring them out in the sink.  I washed him off the best I could with paper towels in the bathroom and had him sit by the wall.  I put half my shirt in the sink and rinsed and wrung it out over and over.  I did the same with my hair and eventually took a paper towel and tried to clean off my pants a bit.  Ewww...!!  The whole time I was thinking how disgusting this was, I couldn't help but feel more gratitude.

As I continued the clean-up process, thoughts of gratitude continued.  "Thank You, Lord!  I am so incredibly grateful!  Thank You for allowing me to be here when Caleb got sick.  Sick kids need their mom!  It would have been really difficult if this had happened while I was at the conference.  And I probably wouldn't have been able to attend at all.  Thank you, Father!  Thank you for allowing me to attend the conference and still be here for my baby.  Oh my heck...this could have happened when Marcos was riding the Front Runner by himself with four kids.  Yeah, that would have been a disaster.  Thank you, Lord!  Thank you for understanding our need for timing Caleb's illness so that we could both be available to take care of him and still see Dylan perform.  Thank you!  You really do have this all figured out, don't you?  And You really do have our best interests in mind!  Why do I doubt that so often?  Why can't I see things more clearly?  I totally get it.  It doesn't mean nothing bad will happen to us, but look at how much worse this could have been.  And it wasn't.  It just wasn't.  Wow!  I am awe-struck right now!  I am blessed beyond measure!  I really am!  Life is difficult sometimes, but my perspective changed for a moment today.  Thank You, Father, for allowing me to see life through different eyes this time.  Thank you!!"

As I sit here a couple days removed from this moment in time, I can't help but reflect.  It reminds me so much of a talk by President Uchtdorf, Grateful In Any Circumstances.  I don't see myself as an eternal pessimist, but I am lightyears from achieving Pollyanna-like status.  Gratitude isn't something that comes natural to me, and I often find myself dwelling on the negative side of things.  I'll be honest, it's tough not to with VOMIT running down your hair.  But, I saw a different side of life with God's help on Saturday.  And in that moment I caught a glimpse of a better me, the person I can become with time, patience and grace.  Gratitude.  Who knew such a simple concept could have such a profound effect on one's soul?

Do Not Overcorrect

Three weeks ago, I was in my bedroom.  It was a Sunday morning around 9:30 a.m. and my mom sent me a text asking if I was home.  I would normally have been at church at that time, but I wasn’t.  I don’t remember if my kids were sick that week or if it was a battle with intense depression that kept me home that morning.  It doesn’t really matter.  I was home, and immediately after responding to my mom’s text, the phone rang.  

She began to relay her story from the previous night.  She and my step dad had driven to Idaho to take some costumes to my sister.  They met in the middle to save them both the full drive.  It was late.  My step dad saw a deer crossing sign flashing and mentioned it to my mom.  My mom was driving the speed limit going around 80 mph.  She took her foot off the gas to slow her speed a bit.  She noticed a car pulled over on the shoulder of the freeway and changed lanes to give them room on the side of the road.  As her jeep crossed over the center line, she realized what had happened.  A huge moose had been hit and was lying length-wise in the middle of the passing lane.  

My heart started beating faster, my palms began to sweat and I wanted to scream or run or cry.  My head started spinning and I had to pinch myself to see if I was dreaming.  An internal dialog commenced as I continued to listen to the details of her story.  “Okay.  Just breathe, Maria.  She’s on the phone talking to you right now.  Don’t panic.  Just listen.  It’s okay.  Everything is going to be okay.”  My mom thinks there was probably 1-2 seconds from the time she saw the moose to the time they hit the moose.  She knew she couldn’t swerve to try to avoid hitting the moose or the jeep would roll.  She also knew she couldn’t run over it with one tire.  She had to try to center it or they were going to roll.  She put on her brakes, gripped the steering wheel and did her best to line up the jeep to hit the massive creature dead center.  They were launched into the air, did a 360 turn and eventually landed on the road again.  My mom described it as a reality version of Dukes of Hazard.  

My heart skipped a beat.  My mom.  My mother.  My rock.  The one person who has been there for every major and minor event in my life.  My most trusted confidant.  Memories flooded my mind.  

Angie and I preparing the best runaway plan ever contrived by an 8 year old, ready to escape the injustices of our middle class American lives.  Our bags were packed and our matching banana-seat bikes were prepped to go.  In her infinite wisdom, my mom inquired about the bags.  “We’re running away and no one can stop us!”  Without the slightest emotion or pause in her dialog, she replied, “Would you like me to pack you a lunch?  I think you might get hungry on your journey.”  Sigh.  Really mom?  Even running away isn’t going to rustle your feathers?  

She’s compassionate.  She’s nurturing.  She’s full of wisdom.  I don’t know a single person who does not like my mother.  Not one.  To know her is to love her.  Truly. 

I remember having a nightmare when I was very young.  It was so vivid, so realistic.  I remember relaying the details of my dream with all the drama and intensity my little girl heart could muster.  I was in a swimming pool and a shark was chasing me.  I couldn’t swim fast enough to escape.  She listened and expressed concern.  And then…she empowered me.  She told me that a dream is in my mind and even though it might be scary or seem realistic, I have the power to change it.  My mind can turn that dream around any way I decide.  I hesitantly closed my eyes and began the dream where it had ended.  Before long, I had visions of a powerful young girl who found her courage, turned around to face the shark, punched him in the nose, and rescued her entire family from utter destruction.  

My mom was determined to teach me what I needed to know and not leave me to my own devices.  I remember our first sex talk when I was about 9 or 10.  She was sitting in the laundry room sorting clothes and gave me a basic definition and understanding of the birds and the bees while my wide eyes stared at her in horror, praying to be anywhere but there.  She followed up regularly with updated bits of information she thought I was prepared to hear.  I was always shocked and devastated and wanted to escape, but she insisted on pushing through the awkward moments.  There were several times in my teens when friends whose parents were not nearly as open about answering sensitive questions came to me knowing my mom would answer any questions I had.  I found myself avoiding her when I sensed anything important was about to take place.  So she got creative.  

As a 15 year old with my learner’s permit, we headed out to log some miles in the big old van we affectionately referred to as “the bomb.”  It was a beast of a vehicle and incredibly intimidating for a young teen learning to drive.  I needed some practice on the freeway so we headed north on I-15.  My mom directed me where to turn.  Truth be told, she didn’t care.  I was captive for at least an hour.  It was nothing short of a hostage situation, and the stakes were high.  She was determined to keep the lines of communication open between us even if I felt uncomfortable.  We ended up driving down Sardine Canyon with the chaos of construction and shifting lanes to navigate.  My mom was cool as a cucumber as I gripped the steering wheel tightly and prayed this was not a 20 mile long detour with no exit in sight.  This moment?  She chose THIS moment to tell me she thought it was time to have another talk about sex?  

I knew the basics.  I’d experienced the embarrassment of the 5^th grade maturation program and aced my 8^th grade health class, but apparently the time had come to have another talk.  This one involved physiological details of the male anatomy.  I’ll spare you the details as I prefer my blog not end up flagged as inappropriate.  Seriously?  Mom!  Really?  Can we PLEASE do this another time?  NOPE!  We had that talk right then and there with my blood pressure sky high as I carefully made my way through the life-sized obstacle course, bobbing from side to side with every turn up, over and around the orange barricades.  

I smiled at the memories.  My mom ALWAYS did what she felt was best for me despite my fears, frustrations or level of discomfort – a sign of a truly great parent.

My mother.   What would I do without her?  Just the thought brought an ache so deep in my chest that I felt my heart might literally break.  But she was talking to me now.  She was on the phone with me.  I shook my head back and forth to gain my composure.  Okay.  I’m back.  

My mom continued her tale.  She told me the one thought that kept going through her head was, “Don’t overcorrect.  Stay calm.  DO NOT OVERCORRECT!"

The jeep landed and she held tight to the steering wheel, instinctively listening to the words echoing in her head.  She didn’t move the steering wheel as they flew through the air and turned around completely.  She held on tight and her body jerked forward as they landed hard, experiencing first-hand multiple laws of physics in action.  She held the steering wheel and adjusted it ever so slightly as they landed, slid and eventually came to a stop.  The jeep stayed upright.  They were alive.  They had survived.  

Her story continues with heroic splendor.  My mom kept her calm.  She called the police to tell them about the accident…and the moose.  It was clearly a danger to everyone.  When all was said and done, 10 cars reported accidents as a result of the moose in the road, but there were zero fatalities.  With an accident involving a moose, that is rarely the case.  They were lucky.  Or more accurately, they were blessed.  

The officers took them to the gas station down the road, and they shared stories with strangers now forever bonded together by a unique connection with a dead moose on the highway.  The car who originally hit the moose started talking about the second car to hit it and how they watched in horror as the jeep flew through the air, spun around, landed and slid.  My mom hesitantly replied, “Um, yeah.  That was us.”  The police officers turned to her in wonder.  “Where did you learn to drive like that?  How in the world did you manage to keep the jeep upright?”  I couldn’t help but SMILE as I listened to this portion of her story.  Yep!  She’s pretty amazing!  Just try to picture my cute mom in her silver jeep driving Dukes of Hazard style.  The jeep lands, she realizes they are both okay and takes a deep breath.  She proceeds to dial 9-1-1, reports the accident, informs them that there is a moose in the passing lane that needs to be removed and then sits and waits for the police to arrive.  

As much as I admire my mom and her super human abilities, she is but a mortal.  It would be foolish and prideful not to acknowledge divine aid that was clearly an integral part of this experience.  The words, “…I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up…” echoed through my mind (D&C 84:88).  Yes.  That’s EXACTLY what happened.   

I tried to say something, but I was speechless.  Other than a few weak attempts at humor acknowledging a potential career as a stunt driver, I didn’t say much of anything.  I tried.  My thoughts bounced like a ping pong ball from past to present to future and back again, but I could not find words to describe it. What was I thinking?  What was I feeling?  Is this really happening?  

We finished the conversation with a small discussion about her thoughts for canceling the birthday dinner she had planned that night with the family.  “We didn’t get home until after 2 in the morning and I didn’t have time to shop.  Plus, I think I may have injured my shoulder.  I don’t know if I’m just sore or if maybe it’s out of the socket or something from gripping the steering wheel so hard when we landed.  It kind of jerked my arm when we hit the ground.  I think I might need to take some Motrin and see how I feel tomorrow.”  Oh my goodness!  Just the idea of her logic and apology over needing to cancel dinner makes me laugh.  "Yeah, mom.  I’m pretty sure it’s okay to postpone a family dinner when you are involved in a traumatic car accident in the middle of the night."

I hung up the phone and just sat and stared at the wall.  It was so much to process.  “Thank you for keeping my momma safe, Lord!”  Tears streamed down my cheeks.  I sat in silence.  And like a broken record, the words so clearly spoken to my mom repeated over and over in my mind, “Do not overcorrect.  Do not overcorrect.”  

I love stories.  I love analogies.  I devoured the scriptures last year as I taught parables spoken by the Savior in the New Testament to 10 and 11 year olds.  I love the simplicity of such stories and yet the continued LIGHT and KNOWLEDGE that come from studying and pondering them over a lifetime.  The Lord speaks to me in a similar manner.  

As the words, “Do not overcorrect” swirled through my head, I immediately saw myself in this story.  The past three months have been extremely difficult, possibly the most difficult extended period I have ever experienced in my life.  And now I saw my trials through the eyes of the driver of the jeep.  I was behind the wheel.  I was obeying the law.  I was appropriately cautious.  I saw the sign warning of deer and moose and slowed my driving accordingly.  I changed lanes to make room for a car stopped along the side of the road.  And then I saw the gigantic obstacle in my path, fully aware there was no way around it.  I could not swerve and avoid it.  There was no time to stop.  I had to grip the steering wheel, center the jeep and allow myself to hit the moose.  I flew through the air, spun around until I was dizzy, and landed hard and rough with the momentum of a 6^th grade science experiment gone awry.  

I wish I could say the moose analogy currently finds me at the gas station with a grin on my face as those around me comment on my incredible driving skills.  I’m not even sure I can tell you what part of the analogy I am currently experiencing.  It seems that unlike my mom’s real life experience, the moose analogy finds me flying through the air, spinning and landing hard and rough over and over again.  The words that likely saved the life of two people very near and dear to me echo in my own mind as I ponder this analogy: “Don’t overcorrect.  Do not overcorrect.”  

This is not one of those trials that happens over the weekend and you are able to move on with a fist bump and a smile.  It is proving to be a much longer trial of intense proportions.  One of those fall-to-your-knees, sobbing hysterically, hoping you remembered to feed your kids that day, talking to yourself in the car on the freeway kind of trials.  It’s hard!  I’m not going to pretend otherwise.  I barely make it through the day more times than not.  I see the wisdom.  I catch a glimpse of God’s purpose and plan in all this chaos.  But the reality of this experience is less than glamorous.  Learning is uncomfortable.  Personal growth is painful.  And scary.  But I’m beginning to believe that like the car accident, surviving this moment in my life may actually be possible.  

As I am metaphorically launched through the air, spin around and come crashing down over and over again, I remind myself again:  “Don’t overcorrect.  Stay calm.  Don’t panic.  Make minor adjustments as necessary.  DO NOT OVERCORRECT!” 

Black Boot Update

When I found out I would spend six weeks in a big black boot, I had plans for a fabulous boot burning party.  OK.  I can do this.  I have to do this.  I will do this.  But I am going to seriously celebrate when the torture of wearing this blasted contraption 24/7 comes to a close.  I had glamorous visions of unstrapping the boot, stepping onto the plush green grass and then running, leaping and pirouetting to freedom.  A new beginning.  The end of my pain.  I saw it unfold before me in great detail.  I know, I know.  The unrealistic expectations created in the wrinkles of my mind are laughable.  

I went to see the orthopedic surgeon every two weeks.  He was pleased with the progress I was making. I was optimistic and excited that my quirky rule-following nature had made me an excellent patient.  I showed up for my 6 week visit and was told my healing had surpassed his expectations.  Internal fist bump and congratulatory self-talk instantly commenced, “Sweet! You freaking rock, Maria!  Way to go, girl!”  The doctor gave me instructions for easing into life without the boot.  At that point the likelihood of breaking or injuring my foot again was pretty slim.  “Nice!  Okay, let’s move on then.”  But transitioning from wearing a boot 24/7 to walking in a shoe was not smooth and seamless.  Apparently I’d grown more attached than I realized to the protection and security the boot provided. 

The moment of stepping away forever from the captivity of the black boot was disappointing and anti-climactic.  Whatever super mom, save-your-precious-daughter kung fu moves I performed on the stairs that resulted in broken bones and joints in my foot apparently also displaced a couple bones in my ankle.  I had no range of motion whatsoever.  I walked sideways with stiff, Frankenstein-like steps.  Oh boy!  This is going to take some work.  After a chiropractic visit, I am less awkward walking on my foot and have a list of exercises that should improve my range of motion over time.  My foot aches and swells easily.  But there is visible progress.  I finally recognize my right foot as the other half of a missing pair, although at this point it resembles a distant cousin rather than a twin.  

My life continues to mirror that of my foot in more ways than I wish.  My moments of despair are accompanied by hope and healing.  But…like my foot, my progress is slower than I would have hoped or expected.  I love stories of miraculous healing and tender mercies.  They inspire me to carry on when life gets tough.  But “…by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).  I was awaiting my defining moment of foot healing glory…but it never came.  Upon reflection, I realized that healing is almost always a process, not an occasion.  I’m learning patience.  I’m learning to trust the Lord.  Keep moving.  One step at a time.  Listen.  Obey.  Don’t stop.  There are angels round about me, both on earth and in heaven.  I have seen and felt that reality.  But I get distracted.  I catch a glimpse of the storm that surrounds me and I lose sight of the Savior.  My faith wavers and I start to fear.  I forget grace.  Grace, the strengthening power that comes from the atonement of Jesus Christ.  The ability Christ has to make up the difference when we have given all we have to give and still fall short.  I lose sight of it often.  Sigh.  

This update is not about the moment I stepped out of my black book.  It’s an explanation of my process, a process that is much more difficult than I imagined.  I'm cautious, even fearful.  I limp.  I wobble.  I hop.  I instinctively pause on my left leg with flamingo-like balance.  I gently flex my foot as I drive.  I take a deep breath and smile as I see the road up ahead.  There is hope and joy and freedom.  And then, like a tortoise in its shell, I retreat to the comfort and protection of my trusty old black boot.  Two steps forward and one step back.  The momentous event of my dreams was less than glamorous, but my slow and steady process to happiness and healing continues.