Christmas is about Receiving

We are thick in the season of giving. Retail merriment may jing-jing-jangle our nerves, but many of us bask in thinking about our giftees and what might bring them joy. This is progress from our less-enlightened “gimme” days. Wonderful! We are learning to be good gift givers.

The flip side of this is that this is also the season of receiving. Just how enlightened are our receiving skills this Christmas time?

I used to think gift cards were bland and impersonal. It was hard for me to give them and somewhat disappointing to receive. Not so these days. Now I find a well-suited gift card (given or received) to be very satisfying. Maybe not gift cards to grocery stores, but I could be wrong.

Getting gifts from very young children is good exercise in receiving. In nursery or pre-school, kids may not even know how to hold a crayon yet. The tots likely aren’t thinking of Mommy when they make a “present” for her with a jot with the red crayon. However, their scribbled bits can be interpreted by an aware adult as evidence of the child’s growing social and motor skills. They stayed in nursery long enough to participate in the activity, after all. That affirmation is a joy to receive! It’s not the “masterpiece” itself we’re receiving and grateful for. Sometimes the meta-message takes some digging.

Speaking of meta-messages, “receiving” is a rich word in our Mormon lexicon. When we are confirmed we are told to “receive the Holy Ghost.” As a convert with a well-developed spiritual life before joining the Church, I can’t say I noticed a particular shift or infusion of new “oomph” with this charge. Sometimes I think of it like a tuner on a radio. The Holy Ghost will always broadcast; how good am I at receiving It? When I “receive” that Gift, I vow to put myself in a frequency to hear It, feel Its humming presence and proceed with the impulses and messages I sense.

In sealing eternal marriages the man and woman promise to “receive” one another. (If something is received, it must have been given in the first place. That’s my take on wording that isn’t exactly identical.) Is there anything more humbling, open and trusting than that kind of exchange? Marriage is a setting requiring equal (and extraordinary) measures of responsibility and vulnerability.

Receiving in most profound ways, I think, is best accomplished without a lot of (jingle) bells and whistles (although expressed heartfelt “thank you”s and/or notes should be somewhere in the mix.) Isn’t the meta-message of the gift of this season found in reflection, awareness, gratitude, and a blessed balance of humility and majesty? Phillips Brooks, author of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” said it well:

How silently, how silently the wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heaven.
No ear may hear his coming; but in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still the dear Christ enters in.

How do you prepare to receive? Any memorable occasions of receiving gone grossly wrong or movingly right? What layers of meaning does “receiving” have for you?

Related posts:

1. What does it feel like?
2. Looking up
3. Milk before meat

Scales of Justice

Justice and Mercy walk into a bar.

Justice overhears a customer order “another Shirley Temple, please.” Barkeep reminds the customer that he hasn’t paid for his last two yet.

Justice grabs the customer by the collar, yells, “You can’t pay your bill? You’re outta here!” and kicks him out the door.

Mercy goes out and drags the customer back in, orders a Shirley Temple for him, pays for it and pays his back tab as well.

Then, turning to Justice, Mercy grabs him by the collar, yells “You may be right, but why do you always have to be such a self-righteous, retentive, heartless jerk about it!?” and kicks him out the door.

Then Mercy goes out, drags Justice back in, puts salve on his scrapes, and buys him – and everyone else in the bar – a free Shirley Temple.

Which do you think are true about this (little lame) anecdote?

A) Neither Justice nor Mercy behaved very well.
B) Justice and Mercy behaved exactly as they should have, with Mercy having more chutzpah than he generally gets credit for.
C) In the end the blessings of a Temple are available to all.

This little romp leaves me musing on a couple wrestles I’ve had with the concepts of justice and mercy.

I learned about one in our Marriage and Family Relations Class taught in our Illinois ward by my friend, the fabulous Dr. Jennifer Finlayson-Fife. One of the many challenges she says couples face is the insistence on “being right.”

Maybe you balk at the idea of letting some ridiculous pronouncement come out of your spouse’s mouth without the appropriate – and just – correction being made. I mean, really. To just let something that wrong/irrelevant/ungrammatical/insensitive, etc. go by unchecked? Never! The cause of truth is at stake!

Or maybe one of you trots out a parade of your partner’s past gaffes or mistakes whenever any new evidence of imperfection surfaces. Gotta hammer home the proof: one of you is perfect and the other, obviously, is not.

Yet, these situations where “justice” constantly trumps, if not mercy, at least kindness can corrode relationships. Sometimes the notion that you have to be right needs to be slapped upside the head. Use judgment, of course, but seek for connection, not for needing to be right all the time.

The other wrestle springs from my quibble with 2 Nephi 2:27.  In this verse we learn that we are free to “choose liberty and eternal life….or to choose captivity and death.” For me, most of my choices are not so stark. They are not between a good choice and a bad choice, but between two good choices. As my  son used to say “Who would take who in a fight?”: Prayer or action? Certainty or faith? Personal responsibility or delegation? Leniency or demanding high standards?

And even Justice or Mercy?

What experiences have you had with holding on to or relinquishing the need to “be right” in a relationship? With choices between good and bad? With choices between two goods? And, in particular, with Justice and Mercy?

Related posts:

1. A Paradox
2. Justice, Mercy, and Other Mysteries (Also, It’s Time to Send Your Submission to Our Journal)
3. Practicing Grace

Valentine’s Day is coming up in less than a week. Mostly, I’ve been trying to ignore it (it’s not my favorite holiday), but my five-year-old won’t let me. For weeks now (literally) he has trailed me around the house, asking me to help him make valentines. In turn, I haul out the red, white, and pink construction paper, the markers, scissors—and, reluctantly—the glue. For ten or fifteen minutes he works happily, cutting out misshapen red paper hearts and gluing them onto white paper cards, before losing interest and moving on to other tasks, leaving a detritus trail of paper clippings in his wake.

Because I have also had this post on my mind, my son’s incessant reminders have forced me to think about Valentine’s Day and social conceptions of love. I don’t want to rehash familiar arguments about the loneliness of a “couple’s holiday” for single people; I don’t even want to criticize the glorification of romantic love (although I have more than enough to say on that topic). But I do want to talk about a kind of love that too often gets overlooked in the glamor of romantic love—the strong, affirming love that can exist between good friends, particularly between women. I’m not sure it was coincidence that Sunny posted about Relief Society yesterday (after I had written this post)—for me, it is this very connection between women that characterizes Relief Society at its best.

First, let me tell a story. In high school and college I had a good friend with whom I also had a strong (if unacknowledged) competition. Both of us were good students, but she was prettier and more out-going than I was. However, I consoled myself that I was, if anything, the better student. Eventually we drifted apart; she got married, and I left on a mission. While I was gone, mom faithfully fed me tidbits of news about my friend—about the essay contest she’d won, about the prestigious scholarship she’d just been awarded. Instead of feeling pleased for her (as I knew I should), I felt sick, as if somehow her gifts made mine less.

Unfortunately, this kind of invidious comparison isn’t an isolated experience (not for me; nor, I imagine, for most women). And I think it’s this kind of conflict that Patricia Holland addresses so beautifully in a 1984 address, “The Fruits of the Spirit”:

It seems tragic to me that women are often their own worst enemies when they ought to be allies, nurturing and building each other. We all know how much a man’s opinion of us can mean, but I believe our self-worth as women is often reflected to us in the eyes of other women. When other women respect us, we respect ourselves. It is often only when other women find us pleasant and worthy that we find ourselves pleasant and worthy. If we have this effect on each other, why aren’t we more generous and loving with one another?

I’ve thought long and often about this. I have finally come to suspect that part of the problem is the heart! We are afraid—afraid to reach out, afraid to reach up, afraid to trust and be trusted, especially with and by other women. In short, we don’t love enough. We don’t exercise to full capacity the greatest gift and power God gave to women.

Luckily for me, my own story has a happy ending. After my mission, I sought my friend out, catching her one afternoon after class in the dimly lit basement of the Jesse Knight Building on BYU’s campus. I told her how jealous I had been, and asked her to forgive me. She stared at me in shock for a minute, then said, “But I was always so jealous of you!” We both laughed—and cried—and have, in the years since, become better about not judging each other, or ourselves, quite so severely. This friend has been my confidante (although she probably doesn’t realize it) in more than one moment of spiritual or emotional crisis. I wish now that I had had the courage to approach her much earlier.

Patricia Holland goes on in her talk to offer three exercises for increasing our capacity to love for each other: to forgive one another, to love unconditionally, and to give love without expecting a full return on our investment. In the interest of time, I’m going to focus on the second, but I encourage you to read her powerful essay in full. Sister Holland suggests that a key step to loving unconditionally is to become aware of, and curtail, our tendencies to critically evaluate others (and, I would add, ourselves):

What we want most of all is the approval, praise, and unconditional love of others. Can we give less than what we desire for ourselves? . . . One day my feelings had been deeply hurt by a close neighbor. Feeling what I was sure at the time was deserved self-pity, I went to my room and poured out my broken heart in prayer. I remember specifically saying, “Dear Father in Heaven, please help me to find a friend whom I can trust, one with whom I know I’ll be safe, one who deserves my confidence and my love.” He did bless me—he gave me, for a moment, the uncluttered insight that can come only by the Spirit. He helped me to see that I was praying for a “perfect” friend, while he had generously surrounded me with friends whose weaknesses were like my own.

A good relationship is not one in which perfection reigns; rather, it is one in which a healthy perspective simply overlooks the faults of others.

I imagine all of us know women like this—strong, flawed women who are doing their best. These kind of women are the lifeblood of the church; they are mainstays in my own life. While this kind of love—accepting, forgiving, self-less—often gets overlooked or ignored in the mainstream press (after all, it’s hard to capitalize on it commercially), it is a kind of love for which I am profoundly grateful. It’s also a kind of love that I want to be able to offer more fully.

Today, I’d like to invite you to reflect on your own friendships, particularly with other women. How have these friendships blessed you? How do you exercise this kind of love in your own life? What can we, as women, do better to cultivate a more accepting environment in the circles we inhabit (at home, at church, in our communities)?

Related posts:

1. Trusting My Premortal Self
2. A Socially-Networked Spontaneous Show of Support
3. Vintage CJane–Sweet Cheeks

And the evening and the morning were the first day.

I ran 200 fewer miles in 2010 than in 2009.  I read 25 fewer books.  I spent a lot of time doing things I don’t enjoy like moving, volunteering in classrooms, baking (mostly) unsuccessful allergen-free breads and goodies, hosting parties and play-dates, and cleaning.  I gave up lifelong dreams.  I walked away from opportunities I thought I wanted.  I had another miscarriage, another D&C.  I continued to be terrible at things like Visiting Teaching (or any activity in which I have to use the phone), making deadlines, and mailing packages.  I spent more time alone.

In 2009, I took intensive German language lessons and attended the University and worked part-time.  This year?  Nothing.  When people ask what I do during the day, I have no answer.  I usually sideline their question by responding (with sass!) that I am a “lady of leisure.”  We laugh.  They then ask a question about my husband’s career and our conversation moves forward.  But I’m stuck in that moment just after the question leaves their lips when I realize (all kidding aside) that the answer to their question isn’t an answer at all, but just another series of questions.

During the week, I get the kids to school, walking them to their classrooms more for PR than anything else.  Face-to-face contact with teachers and administrators is important when your children are both the “new kid” and the “problem kid”.  I grocery shop daily.  I do pilates, I run.  I shower, do my hair, apply makeup.  Twice a week, I spend a few hours in the kids’ classrooms.  I clean for a couple hours of the day.  I cook for a couple more.  I clean up the mess from cooking for another hour or so.  I watch Hulu (a major advantage of moving back to the States) while folding laundry.  I oversee chores and homework.  I love my husband, holding his face in my hands when we kiss goodbye in the morning and hello in the evening.

I’m the last person to say that being a matriarch and mother is and should be all about sacrifice (as if every woman blessed with a husband and children is somehow not only a mother and wife but a martyr) because I don’t believe that.  I think motherhood, like charity, service, and love gives more than it takes, fills more than it drains; God’s math never being equal, the giver is miraculously always the receiver.  Zakes Mda, a South African writer, has said, “Our elders say that an elephant does not find its own trunk heavy.”

There are times when I see my own fleshy form as something that hangs on my soul, inhibits my progress, wiggles and shakes as I try to run it off.  AND there are times when my kids hedge me in, make me feel like I live a sub-human and cave-like existence, slave to their maniacal desires (we don’t call our oldest son ‘Fidel’ for nothing).  But they’re my kids, my spouse, my burden, my joy, my trunk and although I carry them everywhere I go (even when I’m alone), they’re mine and I’m grateful; so often uplifted more than pulled down and loved (always) more than I deserve.

As 2010 comes to a close, I’m sad to leave it behind.  In a strange twist of fate, I achieved less but became more.  I don’t know why I insist on keeping track of the numbers, I’ve never been good at math anyway.

And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good. And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.

Related posts:

1. To Hope For That Which Is Not Seen
2. The Dodge
3. Questions Answered

Right now we have the opportunity to help provide a place that is dry, a place that is warm, a building, a place where children’s lives that have been in grave danger won’t be.

Donate now.  Click on special instructions to seller and type ‘Segullah’ to be entered into the Bloggernacle’s crafty raffle.

Related posts:

1. BlogHer
2. Buried
3. Hearing Voices

Interestingly, I’d just prepared a lesson to teach the Beehives the next day, in which I was directed by the Supplemental Materials booklet to refer to the section entitled “Judging Others” in True to the Faith, which says, “Sometimes people feel that it is wrong to judge others in any way. While it is true that you should not condemn others or judge unrighteously, you will need to make judgments of ideas, situations, and people throughout your lifetime. The Lord has given many commandments that you cannot keep without making judgments. You need to make judgments of people in many of your important decisions, such as choosing friends…and choosing an eternal companion” (p.90). The booklet goes on to caution us to use “great care” when making judgments and advises, “All your judgments must be guided by righteous standards.…Approach any judgment with care and compassion. Whenever possible, refrain from making judgments until you have an adequate knowledge of the facts” (90-91). The Supplemental Materials booklet then asked teachers to pose this question: “The world asks me to be tolerant of everyone’s actions and beliefs. In what circumstances does the Lord ask me to make judgments of ideas, situations, and people?” (p. 8).

Hmmm. Before President Monson spoke last Saturday, a friend and I happened to be talking about judging and she said, “Righteous judgment is essential to living a good life. Everyone judges, and to think otherwise is to deny reality. I think nowadays there is such an emphasis placed on tolerance and acceptance that any tiny amount of criticism is immediately pounced on as ‘judgment.’” Because our children sometimes accuse us of being judgmental (usually if we have concerns about the kinds of friends they are hanging out with), she and I have been discussing this topic on and off for some time, struggling to figure out when it’s appropriate to judge and what constitutes being judgmental.

So, I was a little taken aback after Saturday night’s meeting when my friend emailed me and said, “I know I’m going to hell. Not even in a hand basket. Here’s hoping it’s a dry heat.”

I’ve been thinking about her reaction to Pres. Monson’s talk, especially in conjunction with the lesson I taught my Beehives on Sunday, and I’m wondering how the rest of you feel. True, we all need to work on being less judgmental. Like all of you, I’ve been stung by others’ unkind (and incorrect) judgments of me, and I’ve done my share of unrighteous judging of others. I don’t think any of us is exempt from this human weakness. Ironically, I’ve even judged others for being self-righteous and judgmental. Around and around it goes. And it prevents us—all of us—from developing real, Christlike charity. So President Monson’s counsel was much needed and appropriate. But was he saying that we shouldn’t make judgments at all? I don’t think so.

So, here’s what I want to know: How do you define “righteous judgment?” Do you struggle with knowing the difference between exercising righteous judgment and being judgmental? Do you think, as my friend suggested before Pres. Monson’s talk, that sometimes we err too far on the side of tolerance for fear of appearing judgmental? And, finally, how do you interpret Pres. Monson’s counsel?

Related posts:

1. Forget Not
2. The Rain Falls on the Just and the Unjust
3. I’m Trying to Be Like. . .

Friends who know our weaknesses but laugh them off and frankly forgive us?

Five days a week, for the last nine months we’ve carpooled with these sweet people. It’s part of rhythm of our days. I drive Gwen and Mary to kindergarten, Brad picks them up and each month we switch directions. We stop and talk to Butch the crossing guard every afternoon and the girls talk us into afterschool playdates at least once a week.

But at least once a week I call Brad in a semi-panic, “I’m downtown and I’ll never make it back on time.” “I’m at the doctor’s office– would you mind picking up and I’ll drive both ways tomorrow.” “Um yeah, I’m at lunch with friends. Could you…”

And every single time, he answers, “Sure. No problem. Don’t worry about it.”

It means a lot to me. In this world where people scream at others for making a wrong turn or choosing the wrong word or neglecting the tiniest detail, it is so refreshing to know people who say– “You’re fine.” “I know you’re doing your best.” “It’s OK.”

And I’m especially grateful for these people– Erik, Ben, Stefan, Hans, Xander, Gabriel, Mary– who spend every day with their flighty, forgetful, overscheduled, silly mom. They laugh off my quirks and work around my weaknesses.

I try to do the same for them.

Who gives you leeway in your life? Who accepts you ‘as is’? Isn’t it the best?

Related posts:

1. I’m not a detail person (except when I am)
2. A Short Biography
3. This is the stable . . .

Wasn’t it just a little while ago, when you yourself were ‘wedding and babyshowering’?  Didn’t you make a mean chicken salad sandwich with fresh grapes stuffed into croissants from Sam’s Club and talk about the details of your wedding as if the whole world were interested?

You did. It makes you sick to think about it.  You DID THAT.  You SAID THAT.  You feel embarrassed and grateful that those who know you and love you ‘put up’ with that kind of behavior for as long as they did.  I think of my poor mother, watching me go through these horrible and more importantly, ANNOYING stages of life with little less complaint than an occasional eye roll.  She’s a saint.  I’m going to send her to cjane to gain her wings.  She deserves them.

I wonder why I can’t STAND to be around newlyweds anymore.  Why when mothers start to compare their 9 month-olds, I bolt, swiftly, deftly, not gracefully, but still.  Why playing PTA mom makes me physically ill.

It’s because I’ve done it, said it, acted in a way ‘appropriate’ (if naively at times, stupidly at others, selfishly at the worst) to my stage.   And yet, I can’t cut others any slack once I’ve passed that particular stage.  And I realized, my annoyance isn’t about them.  As with so many things, my annoyance is about ME.  It’s the manifestation of my self-hatred, the ‘id’ that won’t give myself a break, that can’t forgive myself, that perpetuates my mistakes by not being able to move past hating myself for them.

I’m surprised anyone older than me can stand to be around me, knowing that most of what I’m saying is a direct reflection of my ‘stage,’ and that I will eventually grow out of that opinion or fear or compulsion.  My poor MIL, putting up with newlyweds and new parents over and over again as each of her children have matured.  Hearing the same complaints, the same untested idealism, the same over-cocked ideas about parenting.  The same, the same, the same.  But she’s kind.  She listens, even when she knows what they’re going to say.  She defends them if necessary.  I don’t know if I can do it.

But isn’t that why we’re here?  To realize when someone is being stupid and to love them anyway (even if they’re AS stupid as yourself at that age)?  To allow them to judge you, your parenting, your choices, and to know that they will understand you better one day when they’ve realized life doesn’t always fit one standard ideal?  To be patient while they weather their challenges, while their idealism is worn smooth?  To learn from their hope and their faith?  To get over ourselves in order to be teachable, even by those who we think are stupid.  Isn’t that what life is about?

And I guess that’s what God is doing too.  Listening, comforting, guiding, loving, even though he knows better.  Even though he realizes that we won’t always think this way.  Even when we insist on being perpetually stupid.   I think he allows himself an eyeroll now and then.  But not more.  He doesn’t close himself off to us when we’re annoying or self-centered or even hateful.

And I think of how much patience God has; I can’t even imagine.  If I’m ever going to catch up, I’ve got to change my attitude instead of playing peanut gallery at every bridal shower.  Laugh instead of running away.  Listen instead of preach.  Love instead of  judge.  Love myself enough to realize that I’m learning and growing and so is everyone else.  But patience isn’t my specialty and for now the realization that I need to do these things is all that I’m succeeding at.  Something tells me I’ll be waiting for my wings for a while.  At least I’ll be in good company.

Related posts:

1. Marriage Miscommunication
2. Lady
3. Who are the Prepared People in your Neighborhood?

But, an active campaign volunteer, I’ve campaigned for more Democrats than Republicans. I vote for whomever I want. And I don’t like particularly like Kool-Aid. Not at all.

I loved growing up in the Pacific Northwest.

But I live in Utah now and have come to love its quirks along with its beauties and I get a little riled when commenters go on an “I hate Utah” kick.

I have been a faithful member of the church my entire life.

But the whole Prop 8 thing challenged my faith in ways I never expected and made me look long, deep and hard into what I believe.

I am female.

But I prefer salty over sweet, campy vampire or superhero movies over chick flicks, and dogs over cats. In a conflict I usually get mad and get over it instead of the alternative.

I am a quilter.

But sewing makes me swear.

I am approaching 50.

But I still remember the sting of 15. Like a child, I get excited over the simplest of things. And sometimes I like to play in the dirt.

I love what I do for my paid job. I frequently get props at work. We have interesting clients. I know what I do makes a difference for them.

But my heart is at home. I make unseen sacrifices in my “career” so I can put my family first. Because I know what I do makes a difference for them.

I love to go out with girlfriends and talk late into the night.

But I’m also an early riser. My internal alarm usually goes off between 5:15 and 5:45 a.m. (Between you and me, I think the siesta people have it right.)

I love Mother’s Day. It’s a great time to reflect on the joys and perils of motherhood.

But I also hate Mother’s Day. It’s like someone is holding a high-powered magnifier on mine every imperfection and projecting it onto a JumboTron at LaVell Edwards Stadium. Last year we had to sing Love at Home. Twice.

I don’t dust.

But I change out my dish towels and washcloths every day.

In my heart and in my head I know that I cannot make other people happy.

But sometimes it still stings a little when my best is not enough.

Occasionally, I like to crank it up and listen to The Cars, Muse, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Ting Tings or Keane alone in my car.

But in recent years I’ve discovered a love for Gregorian chants, chamber music and the soulful sound of a well-played string instrument.

***************

Last summer I attended a studio night with Leslie Graff (Sound fun? It was. Want to join me at another one this summer?). As she unpacked her supplies to share with us, I noticed Leslie had a significant number of tiny brushes in various shapes and sizes, as well as an entire rainbow’s worth of paints. Paints that created even more colors when mixed together or painted next to or over each other.

She did not get out a giant roller brush and slather the same color of paint all over an entire canvas.

***************
Do you find you have preconceived notions about people based on politics, gender, religion, economic status, what they do for a living, or anything else? What is most likely to shatter those notions? When that happens, how does it make you feel? Do you tend to prefer or associate more with people who think like you do? Are you comfortable discussing differences of opinion, ideas or experiences with others?

What assumptions do people make about you that just aren’t true?

“Much of the vitality in a friendship lies in the honoring of differences, not simply in the enjoyment of similarities.”–Author Unknown

Related posts:

1. You’re Invited: Segullah Studio Night
2. Happy Trails to Me and Me
3. On Questions

The blackness had been steadily closing in. I hadn’t been up to help the children get ready for school all year. I could barely muster the courage to emerge from the bedroom when my husband left for work and the little ones had to be tended to. I walked around in a daze, wishing the day would pass so I could return to the blankness of sleep. I was volatile. A spilled bowl of cereal might send me into a rage that terrified me as much as the children. Or I might drop to the floor and weep, feeling that this moment encompassed my entire life, that things would never get better. The walls were closing in. I couldn’t breathe. I wished I had never breathed.

And yet, to the outside world, even to my closest friends, I was the vision of happiness. I could always be counted on for a joke, a laugh, a good time. I was the life of the party. No one knew how carefully I had to plan and meter my energy so as not to break down in the middle of an outing or social event. My resources were limited. I had to be careful not to tax the fragile, paper-thin facade I worked so carefully to construct.

That my parlor trick of smoke and mirrors would ever be detected had never occurred to me. That’s why this particular day came as such a surprise. It was an especially dark day for me, though for no apparent reason . The demons in my head had been working furiously as of late and my thoughts had grown darker and more hopeless. Suicide had crossed my mind, but having lost a parent at a young age I knew I couldn’t do that to my children. I began to fantasize about a tragic accident that would take the entire family at once. It was during one of these moments when I had a distinct impression: The bishop will call you today and ask if you need emotional help. You can talk to him. He is safe.

I was stunned. I hadn’t heard the voice of the Spirit in any discernible way in months. And yet this was as clear as if someone were sitting right beside me speaking. I knew where it had come from. But how could the bishop know? I hadn’t discussed this with anyone–not even my husband. Yes, of course he was aware, but sometimes we don’t realize how far a seemingly imperceptible current has carried us until we’re so far from shore we can’t remember what safety looked like. My crazy had become the new normal. We were now in survival mode. There was no trying to figure it out; we were just getting through the day.

I waited all day. Once again the dark thoughts began to crowd my thinking. I was standing in the front room dusting. Maybe there’s a way to end it, said the voices. Immediately, as if pulling me from a black pool, the Sure Voice came back. The bishop would call. I knew it. And I knew I would be safe. I clung to that thought like a lifeline. It was all I had; I hoped I could last until the phone rang.

The bishop did call. He was hesitant. He was a new bishop. A young bishop. A careful bishop. He didn’t know how to begin. He stumbled. Finally, he got it out. Someone had come to him, concerned about me. They told him they thought I might be suffering from a deep depression and that I needed help. Who? Of course he wouldn’t say. I broke down. I thanked him for having the courage to ask me that uncomfortable question. I told him I had been waiting all day for his call. He was stunned. He admitted he almost hadn’t brought it up.

That phone call was the beginning of a journey. Now, I must tell you, as miraculous as that phone call was, and as wonderful, kind, and tender as my bishop was throughout our time together, he was not perfect. And he would be the first to say he had no idea what he was doing and he often did exactly the wrong things. But he was humble and open to my expressing what I needed from him. He offered counsel, yet allowed me to guide the process. He encouraged me to seek whatever help I felt I needed, listened to my plans, and supported me fully. This was no easy task, considering my husband and I decided I would seek in-patient treatment at an out-of-state facility for six weeks.

It was almost two months from that first phone call until the time I entered treatment. In the interim I spiraled quickly. It was as if finally admitting I was drowning sucked away any strength I had previously been able to muster. I hardly left my room. However, I still went to presidency meetings and other engagements so as not to let on that my world was crumbling. I still told no one. The blackness was so thick I felt completely cut off from God. Yet the Spirit was moving in my life, mobilizing people around me to rally to my aid though they knew nothing of my condition.

One evening, as I had just gotten out of bed for the day, a sister I had served with in a stake calling showed up at my door unannounced. She came in, sat down by my unshowered, disconnected self and began to speak. She asked no questions, just told her story of battling depression so severe she had left her family and developed a drinking problem. She told me everything as I sat weeping silently. Could she have known that I had been out driving in the middle of the night many nights that week thinking about loading my car with alcohol and getting a hotel room just so I could make it all stop for a while? I told her everything. Again, the Sure Voice told me this was God’s way of letting me know that He was working in my life when I couldn’t hear or feel Him otherwise. I felt I could hold on a little longer.

As the date for treatment neared I began to tell those around me what was really going on and where I was headed. Stunned doesn’t begin to cover it. Some people laughed, thinking this was yet another joke. Most were speechless except for offering apologies for not knowing and not helping. It was a lot to take in and I didn’t expect it to make sense to anyone. At some point I decided the best way to deal with the stigma was head on. I told the bishop, Relief Society president, and friends that it was no longer a secret and that when people asked where I was it was not to be “hush hush.” If anything, I wanted to remove some of the shame so that someone else suffering in a private hell might have the courage to seek help. My ward was astoundingly supportive. While in treatment I received letter after letter from sisters telling their own stories of depression, some for the first time.

My journey through treatment and out the other side is a story for another time. Did I find help? Yes. I came home feeling as if the previous year had been a bad dream, and one whose memory was fading quickly upon waking. I could hardly fathom feeling the things I knew I had once felt. It seemed like I’d been another person in another lifetime. A miracle? Yes. Nothing short of it. It was my salvation, my family’s salvation, and it came because of the thoughtful heeding of a few to the still, small, whisperings of the Sure Voice. Without them I would be lost. This is no small thing, to mourn with those who mourn and to lift up the hands that hang down. My journey into depression was lonely and isolating. My journey into healing was made possible through the love of Christ manifested through His disciples. Truly He seeks after the one, and charges us to do likewise.

Related posts:

1. A New Heart
2. Paths of Agency
3. Hide and seek