Endings and Beginings

Hello all! I can't believe it's already this time of year.

Typically, this is when I'd be posting our latest Family Christmas Video. I love those videos. They're a place where my ideas and visual creativity are allowed to be unbridled. They're little time-capsules, preserving our children's ever-changing personalities. They're joyfull and celabratory despite any of the real, unphotogenic, everyday events and struggles that we go through during the course of the year. In that way, they capture my philosophy that life can be beautiful and smile-worthy, despite {and often because of} the melancholy. Genuine happiness is not the absense of pain. They coexist, like sweet and salty, enhancing the differences.

Last week, I filed for divorce.

Those words sound so dreadful. They imply worlds of hurt, bitterness, and betrayal, which would not be a wrong assumption. But I have been startled, once again, to find that joy is abundantly present.

I know that Heavenly Father has prepared me for this season of my life. I've spent years documenting the ups and downs that have compelled me, over and over again, to turn to Him as my only sure source of comfort and direction; and while my faith has not  become perfect, it is strong. I feel calm and full of gratitude for how clear my path is and the help that is embracing me along the way.

Winking through the calm glow of peace is the thrill that life stretches before me with limitless possibility. After all, I have spent a very, very long time grappling with one hard thing in my life. I'm ready for a new hard thing. I'm ready for new lessons learned and new joys experienced. And thanks to the last 15 years, I know those things are in store for me. The best is yet to come.

Merry Christmas, gentle readers!

{image 1, image 2, image 3}

PS- I'm still writing on my anonymous blog, though some of the drafts may not be posted until after the divorce is finalized. If you'd like the link, you can send me an email at melancholy {dot} smile {at} yahoo {dot} com.

Would I?

"I would never do that," J said the other day in reference to a friend's recent life choices. "And as a parent, I would never enable it."

He was looking to me to agree with him. Yes, he needed to hear, our lives would never, ever look like that. We are more responsible. We are more spiritually in tune. We follow God's guidance and thus would never be put in that kind of situation.

But I didn't reassure him. I couldn't.

*****

Too often in my life, I've felt I was on the receiving end of the "I would never..." statement.

"I would never live in a tent!" said to imply that my father-- the hardest working, most faithful man I know-- was selfishly pursuing a dream at the expense of providing for his family. 

"I would never give birth at home!" said to imply that I, as a homebirther, was a glutton for pain, hated doctors, and would foolishly disregard the safety of my child in the pursuit of some hippy ideal.

"I would never stay in that kind of marriage!" said to imply that if I did, I somehow lacked self-respect.

"I would never let myself go like that!" said to imply that gaining weight would be tantamount to failing as a woman.

"I would never have so many/so few children."

"I would never spend my money that way."

"I would never raise my kid like that."

"I would never say that, think that, do that, believe that, eat that, endure that, trust that, hope that, live that, suffer that, decide that, deny myself that, etc, etc, etc."

The truth is, none of us can say, "I would never" with any certainty. 

*****

There is a story that should be familiar to members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, of the Martin Handcart Company. The Mormon pioneers that made up the company were converts who had emigrated from Europe and were too poor to buy oxen or horses and a wagon. They were forced by their poverty to pull handcarts containing all of their belongings across the plains by their own brute strength. They left late in the season. Many died of exposure and starvation. 

Years later, a teacher, conducting a sunday school class, said it was unwise to attempt, even to permit, the handcart company to come across the plains under such conditions. This comment sparked sharp criticism of the Church and its leaders among the class participants. 

An old man in the corner listened for as long as he could stand it, then stood and said, in essence, "You are discussing a matter you know nothing about. I and my wife were in that company. We suffered beyond anything you can imagine, but did you ever hear a survivor of that company utter a word of criticism?

"I have pulled my handcart when I was so weak and weary from illness and lack of food that I could hardly put one foot ahead of the other. I have looked ahead and seen a patch of sand or a hill slope and said, I can only go that far and then I must give up, for I cannot pull the load through it.

"I have gone on to that sand and when I reached it, the cart began pushing me. I have looked back many times to see who was pushing my cart, but my eyes saw no one. I knew then that the angels of God were there.

"Was I sorry that I chose to come by handcart? No. Neither then, nor any minute of my life since. The price we paid to become acquainted with God was a privilege to pay, and I am thankful that I was privileged to come in the Martin Handcart Company."

*****

I think the essence of the "I would never" statement is fear. What it really means is, "Please say that that would never be asked of me." It means, "Please say that if I make all the right decisions, my life won't be painful in that way." It means, "Please tell me that I actually have control of my life."

I don't think that life is an equation. That if I take righteous desires and add hard work and good intentions, it equals success as I envision it. Yes, God wants people to provide for their families, but that doesn't mean that good people never starve or go homeless. Yes, God wants children to be raised by loving parents, but that doesn't mean that loving couples never suffer infertility. We've all heard it: bad things happen to good people. 

*****

"But what about agency?" J asks, "Don't you believe that some bad things happen because people make really bad choices?" 

Yes, I do. And yes, I've gotten all judg-y about some choices that people have made. I tend to see things very black and white, right or wrong, and it's hard to keep my heart open when I feel like someone is flushing their life down the toilet and hurting others in the process. 

But haven't I flushed my own life a few times? Haven't I made bad choices? Haven't I scarred people along the way? 

I'm not going to make it through this life without making mistakes, both inadvertent and intentional. But all those failures and bull-headed blunders and depressive bouts and holy-schnikes-I-didn't-ask-for-this-in-my-life pains have drawn me closer to God. 

I've learned. I've grown. I wouldn't change things {even though I don't want to live them over again either.}

*****

Our discussion was becoming heated. J kept saying, "How can you think that what so-and-so is doing is okay?" and I kept saying, "How can you think it's our place to judge?" 

It wasn't until later that we realized that what he meant was, "I'm afraid that you would make the same choice if we were in the same circumstance," and what I meant was, "I'm afraid that your version of a righteous and successful life might not match our eventual reality."

Once it boiled down to fear, we were able to finally let it go. 

This person's life is not our life. Their journey doesn't have to make sense to us in order for us to love them. I'm sure our journey doesn't make sense to others from the outside looking in. We all have a price to pay to become acquainted with God. All I can hope is that I can find compassion for others on their way, and recognize that mine is a privilege to pay. 

image 1 and image 2 by amazing photographer Tim Johnson, link to a more full account of the Martin Handcart Company

Life Is Pain

"Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something." -The Princess Bride

I had a rough weekend.

It started with a terrible dream, followed by an extended bout of insomnia that left me in a fog of anxiety and discomfort. We were scheduled to have a family dinner Sunday night, but my mounting insecurity led me to send J and the kids without me.

While avoiding a social event seemed the most gentle choice for myself, I wondered why it was {and is} that so often I become obsessively ashamed of my body when I'm depressed. What had started out as feeling just a little off-kilter and sad had quickly transformed into a full-fledged case of self-loathing.

I couldn't possibly be in the presence of normal, attractive people and pretend to be one of them, I thought. They would see right through me. Being caught trying to walk among them would be torture of the highest order. An unredeemable embarrassment.

I knew, at least on some level, that these thoughts were ridiculous; self-defeating and entirely unhelpful. But where do they come from? They're like a well-worn path that my brain unconsciously treads with the slightest provocation. The ease with which I walk it must mean I've thought this way for a long, long time. I reason that even the most hurtful coping mechanisms were-- once upon a time-- just that. Coping mechanisms.

My theory is this: a long time ago, I was a teenager with very little control of my life, and a very high level of fear surrounding that. It felt powerful and affirming to set goals {run 4 miles} and achieve them. It was meditative and calming to know that whatever else happened, I could succeed in controlling my body.

It was healthy until it wasn't.

Because somewhere along the line, it stopped being simply a means of dealing with pain and fear, and became a hoped-for cure to pain and fear.

Instead of thinking,  I'll feel happier after I go running I'd think, I wouldn't be so sad if I looked like a real runner.

Instead of feeling a sense of accomplishment as I achieved goals, I began seeing my unmet, unrealistic goals {to look like a model} as the source of all that was wrong with my life. I wanted to feel complete-- inoculated from all dissatisfaction and uncertainty. I wanted to be a finished product.

I still do this. Unknowingly, yes, but still-- whenever uncomfortable feelings start to overwhelm me, I tread that well-worn path of thought. If I could fit those old size 0 jeans, this wouldn't hurt me so much. Aside from being patently untrue, thoughts like these inevitably lead to shame and despise, not motivation. I sink into a pit of despair.

What snaps me out of it is often a variation on a theme. {It seems I must learn the same lesson, over and over again.} I remember that when the Buddha was asked to reveal the meaning of life, he replied, "Life is pain." A rather macabre statement, but one that I find oddly comforting. I looked it up; In fact, the inescapability of pain is the first of the Four Noble Truths.

Remembering that life is pain frees me from reading too much into painful experiences. Pain does NOT mean that I'm unworthy of happiness until I'm thinner or richer or admired or what-have-you. Pain does not mean God is punishing me, or testing me, or playing cruel games with me. Pain does not mean that I'm just pessimistic and could be blindingly happy if I would look on the bright side. Pain is just life, and remembering that saves me from wasting my time hopelessly trying to avoid it.

I had a therapist once who said that the degree to which we open ourselves to pain is the degree to which we open ourselves to joy. That we cannot experience one without the other, and that when we live in fear or pursuit of only one, we live a half life.

I think of all the good people in this world who have suffered and yet done heroic, good things with their lives. I think of how none of us ever has true control over anything. I think of how little it matters in the end what dress size I wear. I think of all the small yet sacred things I can do with my time if only I wouldn't allow fear of pain to derail me.

I'm trying to condense all these thoughts into a concise mantra I can feed myself as I tread a new path of thought in my brain: "I am not my body. Life is pain. Embrace it. Look for God in it."

Baby steps, people.

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Mirage

J and I were driving home from a party one night. I was deep in my own head, staring out the window when J asked what was wrong.

I had to explain that one of the guests had been talking about her nutrition class at the university. She'd been required to step inside a machine that measured body fat, and she {acting all demure and modest} reported the result to us. Her percentage was miniscule. As in, I've only ever heard of a number that low in men who were marathon training.

Instantly, I felt like a failure. My clothes felt uncomfortable. My SKIN felt uncomfortable. I wanted to crawl outside of myself. I felt like a thing unworthy of even taking up space. For the rest of the evening, I'd withdrawn to a corner of the room and tried to survive the onslaught of feelings.

However, If depression has taught me anything, it's been to examine and question my own thoughts. Before J interrupted my reverie, I'd been in the midst of some major self talk.

If my body fat percentage were lower than hers, would it actually make me better than her? 

What if I were in a car crash and became burned or disfigured, would I suddenly be worth less?

Can I only feel good about myself if I feel better than the other women in the room? Don't I actually hate that? 

I've seen other women look at me and feel bad about themselves. I always have to jump in and proclaim "This tan is fake!" "I'm wearing spanx!" "I'm just having a good hair day!" I feel like a fraud that has simply succeeded in fooling everyone.

If I don't want to feel better than other women-- if I don't believe I am better than other women-- why do I allow myself to feel worse? Less than?

Isn't this a no-win situation? Isn't this a distraction? Something to keep me discouraged so that I can't do wonderful, inspiring things with my time? Isn't beauty all just a mirage?

And just like that, I felt a moment of clarity. I'd been torturing myself like the plain-bellied sneetches with no stars upon thars.

Beauty does has a place in life. I appreciate beauty. I create beauty. I seek beauty.

But beauty is not the purpose of life.

In fact, if I allow myself to get lost in the world's narrow definition of beauty, I actually miss out on seeing, appreciating, creating and becoming. I think the unfathomable potential we all have is really, truly beautiful.

We are taught that even Jesus "hath no form nor comeliness: and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him." {Isaiah 53:2} The greatest of them all didn't even match the world's expectation of beauty. 

I find that freeing.

Not Something to be Seen

"She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something." -Rainbow Rowell "Eleanor & Park"

Shortly after J moved back in following our 9 month separation, we began preparing for a trip to the Cayman Islands. 

Now, even if a new and relatively fragile reconciliation hadn't been part of the picture, a beach vacation and all that it would entail would have been enough to make me start to feel very small, anxious and insecure. 

This was meant to be a second honeymoon; an opportunity to reconnect and recommit. I didn't want it to be marred by my body shame, and I really didn't want to spend every second of the trip watching where my husband's eyes went and competing to keep them on me. 

So, how to feel calm, comfortable and confidant? I didn't know. I prayed for help. 

I'd already thrown out pretty much anything that had bad memories or past associations with them, so I was now forced to purchase essentials. Bras, underwear, swimsuits, sundresses, etc. The very first thing I determined was that I would not allow myself to perform. I was not going to buy something simply because of how it would make me look to others; my primary objective would be that it made me feel pretty. If I liked the way I looked, that would translate to security, right? I would be able to enjoy myself, sure that I looked nice to me.

I braced myself and went to Victoria's Secret, {Ugh. Who knew bra shopping could be so traumatic?!} and spent an ungodly amount of time in a dressing room with a box of bras, trying things on and crying. I wanted to look pretty. I wanted to feel pretty. Was that really so wrong? I didn't think so, and yet the whole experience was making me feel terrible. I went home with my purchases and felt like throwing up.

That evening as I poured out my anguish to the Lord in prayer, I heard these words in my mind: "... not meant to be looked at." and knew immediately that I was more than something to be seen. I was more than that to Him. I wanted to be more than that to others. And I certainly needed to be more than that to MYSELF. 

I'd been so terrified of being objectified and judged-- confused because I didn't want to be lusted, but scared of being dismissed and despised-- that I'd bought into the prevalent theory that the way to take back power is to objectify myself.  That if I thought of myself as sexy and desirable {something to be looked at} first, that what others thought of me wouldn't phase me. I would have confidance. I would have self-esteem.

Bull#%$&.

I was accepting that I was nothing more than something to be looked at! It didn't matter if someone else said it through their actions towards me or if I said it to myself-- I was allowing myself to internalize the lie that my reflection was a measure of my worth. And that-- buying into that lie-- was killing me. 

All that pain, all that depression-- it was as if my very soul were rejecting the notion, refusing to be dismissed as simply a body. As I let the idea that I was more sink in, I began to feel free.

I took back the stupid, pink bag of 'sexy' undergarments and bought something simple instead. This time, I just wanted to honor and respect what I saw in the mirror. 

I purchased a modest, stylish swimsuit that felt like 'me'. I tried not to worry about whether it made me look thin or not. 

And when we ended up on a boat to see the stingrays and sat across from a model in a tiny bathing suit-- I closed my eyes and told myself that I am not my body-- and neither is she. We are not a threat to one another.

It was the first step in an ongoing journey. 

{image of a Migrant Mother by Dorothea Lange. I love the strength and humanity in her face. It reminds me that beauty is everywhere and is far more than society's 'ideal body'}

Measure of Worth

It is amazing how long one can cling to faulty thinking, even when that thinking is blatantly unhelpful, illogical, and extremely harmful.

For years I've said the words, "I am a child of God". I've sung them, recited them, taught them to my children and professed my stalwart belief in them. 

I am a daughter of God. 

Yet, how can I hold this sacred truth in one hand, while also holding the belief that what I look like is a measure of my worth in the other? It's a crazy-making dichotomy, one that undermines me constantly.
 

Over this last year, I've experienced a slow awakening. I'm seeing just how painful my own faulty beliefs are, and I've resolved to dedicate my efforts over the next 12 months to changing them.

Because I DO have immeasurable worth. We all do.

That worth is not conditional. It doesn't change. We can't earn it or lose it, no matter what we look like, or what may happen to us in this life, or how good or poor our decisions are, or how loved or despised we may be by others; no matter what. We have infinite, immeasurable, divine worth, simply because we were thoughtfully and individually created.

We exist, and so we have worth.

This week, I'll be writing about what I've learned and what I'm working on. I hope you'll join me. :)

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On Detaching and Attaching

After the first big crisis J and I had early in our marriage, I'd decided that I'd allowed my happiness to rely on J far too much.

I told myself that I'd expected too much from him and from marriage in general-- buying into that fairytale thinking and happily ever after stuff. If I was going to stay, I had to come to terms with the reality of our relationship and determine whether I could find peace, fulfillment, and confidence regardless of whether J changed or not.

In short, I had to detach.

I'd grown up in a family that was very open. We talked about everything, relied on one another, and worked through things together. At first, it felt like life would be an empty, sad place if I couldn't turn to  J like that. What was the point of being together if we couldn't nurture each other? But I reasoned that if I divorced, I'd still have to find a way to be happy and whole. Why not discover the secret without the divorce part?

After a time, I felt I successfully developed an attachment cycle {albeit one independent of J}:

Tension, Triggers and Trauma. We all have them-- the responsibilities that produce tension; the comments that trigger self doubt; the traumas that are out of our control but cause us intense pain; and all the other myriad of negative thoughts and feelings that plague mortality. At times they roll off our back, but eventually they build up and become unmanageable.

When I felt tension or triggered or trauma, I had to Acknowledge what it was that I was feeling and Allow myself to feel it. Fighting it or trying to talk myself out of it or telling myself I 'shouldn't' feel it never worked. I had to acknowledge {to myself and to God} what I was thinking and feeling before I could move on to the next step. It couldn't be skipped.

Surrender. Once I acknowledged what I was feeling, I could then work through it or choose to let it go. If I was resentful, I could choose to forgive. If I was lonely, I could choose to reach out. Often, there was absolutely nothing I could actually change in order to 'fix' what I was feeling-- especially in the case of chronic clinical depression-- but I learned to sit with uncomfortable feelings. I practiced surrendering the feelings to God-- admitting my powerlessness to change what I was feeling and having faith that it would pass.

Happiness and Health always seemed to follow. I would reach a phase where I felt mentally and emotionally whole. Things that had seemed difficult no longer felt burdensom. In this stage, I could be creative, serve others and deal with things in a healthy way.

This worked for years. Despite depression, financial problems, J's emotional unavailability and all the other uncertainties of life, I felt intimately connected to and sustained by my Heavenly Father. In fact, I'd lived for so long without expecting J to 'complete me', that when he began demanding that of me, I was shocked. Then angry.

I knew I couldn't fill that void for J, and a large part of separation was J discovering it as well.

But writing the fairytale for J had been a turning point. I began to realize just how detached from him I'd become, and that it might-- just might-- be possible for me to let him in safely. Maybe I could meet some of his needs. Not because I had to, or because it was expected of me, or was my duty-- but because I truly wanted to. Because I loved him.

Our therapist described a new cycle. Our happiness wouldn't rely on each other but could include one another. I drew something like this to visualize the concept:

Life would still have Tension, triggers and trauma. For a time, even more so as we attempted to heal things between us.

I would still need to Acknowledge those feelings and allow myself to feel them.

But if I wanted to include J, at this point I could GO to him and Give him the Opportunity to nurture. To empathize. To even be aware of what it was I was thinking and feeling. While scary {he had never been able to handle my negative feelings very well}, it helped to keep in mind that I could move on to the next step regardless of his reaction.

Whether his reaction was positive {empathy} or negative {rejection}, I could still Surrender my feelings to God and achieve that Happy, Healthy state.

And here was the key: when I entered that Happy, Healthy state-- that one where I don't feel fragile, but feel like I have extra peace and contentment to spread around-- that is when I could Take the Opportunity to nurture. That is when I could be sure that there was no 'fixing' or 'saving' or codependency going on. That is when withholding affection might be punitive and unnecessary instead of protective. If I nurture while in the Happy, Healthy state, I can be sure that it is just pure, selfless, Christlike love.

****

This whole concept of attachment cycles has been on my mind a lot lately. It's difficult, even now, to take the risk and let J in. I worry about losing the peace and serenity I've achieved. And when I'm in that happy, healthy state, I still sometimes get a twinge of panic, as though turning to J and sharing my love for him makes me a doormat or gives the impression that I've never been hurt. It's a daily effort to be aware of what is going on inside of me and act with integrity.

I'm still learning.

That Place

I've been in that place before-- the place where everything feels hopeless. That place where the reality of my imperfections weigh heavily on my shoulders; the place where it becomes exquisitely clear that there is very little I can do about it. Suddenly, my efforts seem infinitesimal-- I feel infinitesimal-- and in despair, I wonder why I even try. It will never be enough. I will never be enough.

****

It was strange to watch as J entered that place. I knew from my own experiences how absolutely real it it can feel-- but seeing him mired there was startlingly eye opening.

"You're missing the point" I wanted to say, "Your worth doesn't hinge on how close you come to achieving perfection. It doesn't even hinge on whether I love you or not."

But words couldn't penetrate the fog of despondency J was lost in, and while I knew it wasn't my job to rescue, I was filled with compassion for him. I decided that if he couldn't figure out a happy ending for his fairy tale, then I would.

For two days, I stayed up late with paper, brushes and paints spread across the kitchen table. I drew from every half-finished screenplay he'd ever written, every misunderstood coming-of-age character, every tale of tragedy-turned-redemption.

And as I sketched, painted, wrote and bound, I was struck by how much I loved J. I loved him fiercely and completely, in a way that was unfettered and true. Unlike trust, my love was not something that he had to earn. I loved him simply for being.

How could I explain to him that there was value in fighting his battle regardless of vanquishment, because the effort alone made it safe enough for me to join him in it?

As that thought settled within me, my eyes filled with tears-- and I knew with sudden clarity that we are all loved by our Father in Heaven this way.

****

I have also been here before; that place where truth resonates in my soul and I feel unshakable in my faith. That place where I know that I am more than the body I reside in or the cleanliness of my house or the behavior of my children. That place where I feel a kinship with everyone around me, and long to put my arms around them and let them know how deeply I understand the ardor of their journey. That place where I wish I could remember these things always:

That I have value simply because I am His.

That I cannot fill my void with praise or money or addiction or love. It will never be enough.

That I cannot save myself through perfect effort. I will never be enough.

That the simple act of turning to Him and acknowledging my own inability makes it possible for Him to join me in the fight.

And that trying is not about achieving happiness or avoiding pain. It's an expression of love for the One who does fill my void and does make me complete.

 ****

I finished J's hand-illustrated, personalized fairy tale and wrapped it with care. I had no idea if it would touch him in any way, but making it had been a turning point for me. I felt more hopeful for our future together than I had felt in a long time. As I waited for him to arrive for our Friday night date, I couldn't stop grinning. 

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Stages of Grief: Acceptance

I'd been living with my parents for several weeks. The distance was healing. With each passing day, I felt myself becoming a little more grounded, a little more still. As I reconnected with myself and my Savior, lessons that I'd already learned returned to my mind. Years earlier, when J and I were newly married, we'd experienced a crisis that had nearly resulted in divorce. As I ran on rolling, country roads, I accepted once again the things I'd come to accept then: 

• I could not rely on J or our marriage to make me feel valued, fulfilled, beautiful and whole. I was all of those things regardless of J or his actions.

• J was not responsible for my happiness and I was not responsible for his. I accepted that I only had control over my own choices and attitudes, not my husband's. 

• I accepted that J was not the sum of his mistakes.

• I accepted that forgiveness was a gift. I could give it freely and without condition.

• I accepted that I was a mortal, flawed woman married to a mortal, flawed man and the only way to navigate the many things that felt 'true' was to rely on Heavenly Father.

• I accepted that God's version of things working out and my version of things working out would not always be the same-- but that God's version was always better, even if it was more painful.

One night, I woke to an alert on my phone. It was an email from J, and it wasn't good. I stayed awake to think, write and pray. As dawn broke, I laced up my running shoes, stepped out the door, and pleaded aloud.

For weeks, every time I asked for guidance, the word whispered to my soul was, "patience." But this time, I felt with certainty that I had to give J a choice. Move out, or the children and I would stay in Grangeville.

That was the moment that I finally accepted that even if it was true that I'd been right to marry J; even if it was true that I'd been told to stay; even if it was true that we were meant to bring these children into the world; even if it was true that I could be happy and at peace regardless of J's actions; even if it was true that I loved him; even if I did everything 'right', J and I might still get divorced. I accepted that J had his agency and that I may someday receive the whisper, "enough". I had to accept that it would not be a failure.

God's version of things working out and my version of things working out would not always be the same. But I accepted that God's version was always better.

{image}

Stages of Grief: Bargaining

Even in my darkest, most rage-filled moments, I had never been able to forget that 13 years earlier, I'd looked into J's eyes and asked my Father in Heaven if this was the man that I was to marry. My heart had been flooded with warmth, and my mind had seemed to expand to view years, decades, eternities into the future-- and I could not deny that marrying him had never been a mistake. I had loved him. I still loved him. Even when I hated him, it was because loving him hurt so much.

****

The Anger drained out of me as I uttered my feeble, hopeless prayer; and while it was a relief to let it go, I was left utterly exhausted and crushed beneath the weight of the options before me.

Leaving felt like an impossible choice. If it were to all end now, then why had I felt so right about our marriage to begin with? Why hadn't it ended years ago, when it very well could have? Why had I felt so strongly that we should continue to have children? I was in. I was committed. I had decided to trust. I couldn't leave now.

But staying also felt impossible; it would strip me of every shred of dignity and self-worth I had. Despite J's protests, I knew the pattern we were in. Staying would be the very definition of insanity- doing the same thing but expecting a different result. I couldn't become the emotional equivalent of a battered wife.

There were no easy solutions.

I want to say that I gave the decision to the Lord because I trusted him to see what I could not; to fix the unfixable. And there was some of that. But mostly, I was tired. Trying to navigate my way was too heavy a burden, and my mortal mind was just too flawed to believe that there could ever be an end to the misery.

I gave it up because I had to.

Yet even as I exercised this fraction-of-a-mustard-seed worth of faith, I tried to Bargain as well. "I'll do whatever you want me to do, " I'd say, "as long as you save my marriage." Or, "as long as my children aren't traumatized" or, "as long as this just stops hurting so much."

I woke the next morning knowing that I would leave. Peace settled on me as I packed bags and made arrangements for the children and I to visit my parents in their tiny farming community.

For the rest of the summer, as I went running past fields of wheat ripe for harvest, I'd pray for guidance and fight to stifle my own desperate desire for things to turn out the way I wanted them to. Bargaining wasn't a stage-- it wafted through my days like smoke and blinded me to the ease of trusting Him completely. It still does. But as I teetered between fear and faith, it became clearer to me that He could see what I could not. That He could fix the unfixable.

So I decided to let Him.

Tomorrow: Depression

{image via The Grangeville Project}

No Fear

I'm alone with the kids a lot.

This is, in many ways, one of the greatest advantages of homeschooling my children. I get to be there for both the pivotal and the mundane moments of their everyday lives; influencing, directing and enjoying them, unencumbered by someone else's schedule or requirements.

However, as any mother knows, the constant company of children can drive one a bit batty.

As Little Miss C has gotten older, I've started leaving her in charge of her younger siblings while I go running in the morning or dash to the store for milk. She has the capacity to be a tender and nurturing babysitter, {She once comforted her brother while he threw up in the middle of the night and then stoically washed out the bowl.} but tending one's siblings is not without its challenges. Sometimes, she gets drunk on her power and bosses her brothers around; or E takes advantage of the lack of adult supervision and tortures everyone around him with his defiance and temper; or Baby R has a blow-out diaper and no one wants to deal with it.

And then there's the issue of her blood phobia. Not just a fear-- she has a full on, run-into-traffic-in-a-blind-panic phobia that makes me second guess the wisdom of ever leaving her to deal with potential skinned knees or cracks to the forehead, let alone worst-case-scenarios.

I contemplated this as I went running yesterday. If something terrible were to happen while I was away, I'd be haunted for the rest of my life. But if I didn't get a break every once in a while, my sanity would seriously suffer. My desire for added freedom wrestled with my desire to make a perfect decision. So I ran and prayed and pondered as I listened to conference, and with sudden clarity I felt the answer dawn on me.

When people hear that I gave birth to my children at home, they ask how I could be brave enough {read: stupid enough} to be so far from the resources of a hospital in the case of catastrophic circumstances. What if something happened to the baby? How could I live with myself? I always tell them that while J and I both desired to give birth at home, we didn't make the decision on desire alone. We made the choice with prayer, which allowed me to let go of end result. Regardless of whether disaster struck or not, I knew in my heart that I would be able to rely on that feeling of confirmation I had in prayer, and thus have peace about the matter.

I felt that the same approach should be applied to these present circumstances. Every time I am faced with the decision of whether to allow Miss C to watch the kids or whether to hire a babysitter, I plan to pray about the matter. If I feel good about leaving, I'll be able to do so without regret. If not, I'll simply wait or get a babysitter. This simple solution allows me to feel that I'm living in faith instead of fear.

Experiences like these remind me of Heavenly Father's love for both me and my children. He really is the perfect parent. :)

Discoveries

Do you ever have those times where you're genuinely surprised to learn something about yourself? Like, " Wow, this fear of financial instability is really deep-rooted," or, "Reading means so much to me, I don't know if I can marry a man who doesn't appreciate the poignancy of Dandilion Wine," or, "If the towels aren't folded just so, I find I get this weird facial tic."

My latest discovery? I lose weight when under a certain kind of relationship-related stress.

While all other stressors seem to send me clawing for chocolate, this particular brand of tension causes me to lose my appetite, become jittery and sleepless, and crave long work-outs to burn away the mounting anxiety. Proof? It took me two years, a half marathon and a stint of the South Beach diet to get back to my pre-pregnancy weight, but just a few weeks of marital discontent for my pants to {literally} be falling off of me.

I'd be bragging if it weren't so dang miserable.

The first time I can recall this happening was when I was eighteen and dating on-and-off {mostly off} a guy four years my senior. I knew from our very first encounter that he wasn't the man I was going to marry, but I was lonely and eighteen and I liked him. So I went out with him anyway, ignoring my family's vocal objections and my own intuition and promptings on the matter. I felt happy when I was with him, but riddled with guilt and doubt when I was home. I was too nauseous to eat, spent hours running and arguing with myself, and had insomnia for nearly six months. It was a relief when I finally broke it off and moved out of state to be on my own. I've often said that the greatest good that came of that experience was that when I met J, I knew it was right because I'd already experienced what it was like to be with someone when it was all wrong.

Which only makes experiencing this kind of strain with the right person feel particularly unfair.

However, unlike my eighteen-year-old self, I can't be preoccupied with what it is I think I deserve. I'm trying to be silent, listen to that still, small voice of intuition inside of me, and be at peace. But it's hard. Then again, it's hard holding on to my hurt and trying to fix everything as well. Given the choice, I choose the hard thing that leads to peace.

In a few days, we leave for a week-long vacation in Salt Lake City, after which the kids and I are driving on to spend a month with my parents in a tiny town on the border of Washington and Idaho. Posting may be spotty, but if this is the last you hear from me for the next five weeks, I want to leave you with this:

I've discovered that while I wouldn't choose, or think to be grateful for, particular trials in this life, I'm grateful for what they've taught me and who they've forced me to become. If I could see into the future, I would choose the end result. I can't see into the future, but I know and trust my Heavenly Father, who can. I've discovered that I can be grateful for the hard things.

And that's genuinely surprising.

Pi Day

As I browsed my favorite Pi Day images, I stumbled across this recipe for mini key lime pies and now my mouth is watering. It sounds so perfectly tart and refreshing for a day like today. Also, mini pies are the best. Portion control plus crazy indulgence {because-- hello! You're eating a whole pie!} is the very definition of awesome sauce.

If you follow me on Instagram {@melancholysmile}, you know that mere hours before J's birthday, our tax return came in. We were able to quickly pay some past-due bills {thus avoiding having our power, water and phone switched off} and celebrate by taking him out to dinner. It was a birthday miracle. :)

{Here's a little tangent on miracles:

Though J and I have been praying about our future for months, always feeling comforted and at peace, we didn't know how to interpret that peace. Did it mean that J would get more freelance work? That he'd find a corporate job? That we'd lose the house but it would all be part of a bigger plan? It was confusing and difficult to explain to others how we could feel stressed and calm at the same time.

When I was younger, I used to say, "God's version of things working out and my version of things working out aren't necessarily the same thing." I'd say it with bitterness, bravado and more than a bit of fear. But over the last six years, I've been working on saying those same words with confidence and faith.

Up until the day J got this new job {which he started on Monday} I wasn't sure that God's plan and my plan were the same, but I wanted them to be, and I was willing to change my expectations to match His. I imagined all the worst-case scenarios, walked through them in my head, and tried to find the good that could potentially come of that particular situation. I told myself that no matter what, it would be okay. No matter what, I was going to be positive. No matter what, God knows my heart and will give me what I need in this life to be like him, which is more important that getting what I want in life.

I was so busy steeling myself, determined to be happy and align myself with His will that when His will turned out to be an amazing job offer and tax-return money to avoid financial catastrophe at the 11th hour, I could only grin and then laugh incredulously.

Sometimes God's version of things working out and my version of things working out are exactly the same, and when that happens, I feel like dancing. I feel like the whole world is sunshine, and I need to spend the rest of my life spreading joy. {"You get a car! and you get a car! and YOU get a car!"}

I want to think that I'd feel just as much love if things had turned out otherwise, but for now, I'm relishing the happiness. And imagining giving away cars.}

Anyway, back to J's birthday-- Little Miss C and I made ice cream pie instead of cake for him. It had a grasshopper cookie crust, a thin-mint ice cream layer, hot fudge, a layer of whipped cream and then Andes Mints on top.

I wish we still had some. I'd eat a slice for Pi Day. :)

{images 1, 2, 3 & 4}

Full

You know that scene in It's a Wonderful Life where all the townspeople come together to save George from the brink of destruction? {Who doesn't?} That's what it feels like around here!

Just a week ago, I was baking bread every day just so we'd have something to eat. This is what our refrigerator looked like:





Today, it looks like this:




We've had help pour in from all directions. We've been invited over to dinner {then handed all the leftovers!}, given bags of groceries from a neighbor's personal food storage, received packages in the mail and anonymous donations, and even had a whole ham {from The Pork Shop, ohmygoodness it is sooo good} delivered to our door.

It has been a feast, both literally and spiritually.




J commented last night, "The interesting thing about being on the receiving end is how much I feel the spirit-- How much I feel loved and watched over rather than awkward or embarrassed."

For him, this is an entirely new experience. Never in our marriage has our situation been this precarious; and while I grew up in a household that was no stranger to dire financial straits, it's been completely different experiencing it from an adult perspective. I expected to feel that familiar fear. Instead, I feel comforted.

I've cried several times this past week, awed at the generosity of friends and strangers, but even more awed at the hand of the Lord in our life. I thought I knew that security in this life is an illusion-- that we rely on the Lord for everything. But having it become so obvious has been both touching and eye opening for me.

My heart is full, my refrigerator is full, and soon my children's stockings will be full. I cannot send up enough prayers of thanks for all of you!


God bless you, every one.

Thankful for Distractions

Things are quite stressed financially right now. {As in, we're digging quarters out of the sofa in order to buy apples for the pie I have to make for Thanksgiving. True story.} And it's funny, because J and I both have our coping mechanisms: J takes deep breaths and gets to work. I either become paralyzed {sleeping in later and later to avoid the day} or busy myself with creative little tasks in between baking bread and making soup out of leftovers. Anything to distract the mind.



Fortunately, I have a whole box of little projects I've been meaning to get to. First up: refurbishing this nasty tray I found at Ross for $3. Can you believe Little Miss C was appalled when she heard I was going to sand and paint over the flowers and butterfly? Sweet girl.

After sanding, priming and painting, I decided to try my hand at a few stripes for visual interest. In the past, painters tape and I have not been the best of friends. I've learned to do most projects without it, hating the cleanup involved when the paint bleeds thru. But luckily, this time it worked out well.

Now I have a tray {still unstyled-- don't judge} to corral wallets, sunglasses, candles and all that spare change we no longer have. :)

Last night J said, "Besides not being able to pay bills or buy anything, it's not like I feel poor." And I had to agree. We're not poor. I've been poor before-- it's chronic, stressful, fighting-to-survive-day-to-day living. We're just broke.

I heard once that the majority of the nation is 2 missed paychecks away from being homeless. I get that. Life is precarious. It could all change at the drop of a hat.

But being broke is not the worst thing in the world, and as Thanksgiving approaches, I'm reminded that the pilgrims found room in their hearts for gratitude despite poverty, illness and death.

Being broke doesn't negate the fact that I have healthy, happy children. I have a husband that I love fiercely. I can run {slowly} and not be weary. I have friends and family I can talk to and lean on. I live in a free country, never have to shovel snow, and have the gospel to give me comfort and guidance.

Even without an awesome new tray, I am lucky, lucky.

Conference Weekend

Has it really been six months already? Apparently so. Thanks to the advent of streaming video, we've spent the day watching conference while folding laundry and -ahem- napping. :) Happy Weekend.

Miracle

Little Miss C has a cousin named Allee. A few years ago, she was in the hospital barely clinging to life. Yesterday, she got baptized. This is the story of her miracle. Happy Sunday, all. :)

{video by J}

Stranger Danger

Last week, we received a notice in the mail that a registered sex offender had moved into our neighborhood. I promptly looked up the details of his offense on the provided website, and was {slightly} consoled to find that he did not have a record of assaulting children. Still, a conversation on the rules of safety with our kids was unavoidable.

I hate talking about this stuff with my children. When I was 6 years old, I remember my parents teaching my brothers and I about Stranger Danger. We got fingerprinted, roll played several scenarios of a stranger offering us candy, and practiced running away while yelling "Help! You're not my daddy!"

A few weeks later, we begged my mom to let us stay in the toy isle while she finished grocery shopping, and it became apparent that we were not grasping the gravity of the rule that we stay by her side. So she told us about a boy named Adam, concluding with the words "... all they ever found of him was his head. And that's why you never leave my sight when we're at the grocery store."

Yikes.

As a teenager, I'd retell that particular anecdote as an example of how overprotective my mother was. But now? Now I get it.

A mother's fear for her children is a powerful thing. And there are so many things to be afraid of.

So we taught our kids about strangers; that they are never to enter a car or house or go with someone they don't know. We taught them that even trusted friends and family members can hurt them. We taught them that our family doesn't have secrets, and if they are ever asked to keep a secret that they can come to us. We taught them to run home if their friends ever offer to show them their dad's gun, or to view something on their laptop, or to try a drug or cigarette. We taught them that if something bad does happen to them, it's not their fault. They are good kids.

But most importantly, we concluded with the words "... if you are ever uncertain or scared or confused about what you should do, say a prayer. Heavenly Father can be with you even when mommy and daddy can't, and He will always help you, comfort you, and let you know what you should do."

{To my mother's credit, I also remember her saying those exact words to me.}

Now, I tell myself the same thing as I jog with my new can of Mace {it turns out there are three sex offenders on my running route}. I don't want to live my life being held hostage by fear of what could be. So I take precautions, follow rules, do my best and then... I let go.

Because I have faith that He will be there when I cannot.

Fear

Growing up, my family was plagued with money problems. My dad worked hard, my mom was a genius at creating a home and meals and beauty out of seemingly thin-air, and my childhood was by no means tragic. But from a very young age, I worried. I hated Christmas, and the month-long stress it induced in me as I monitored what my younger brothers were petitioning Santa for. I lost sleep dreaming up schemes to make money and 'save' my parents. I was simultaneously frustrated and extremely defensive of my family's efforts to survive from day to day. 


As teenagers, my brothers and I got jobs and contributed to the family finances. I grew to believe that our hardships were blessings- bringing me closer to my family, teaching me to rely on the Lord, and forging me into someone akin to Job. Even so, there were times when I would look at clothing in a store window and want it so badly, it physically hurt.


I grew up and got married. In our poorest newlywed days, we were never as poor as I'd been as a child. We paid off our debts, had a savings account, traveled through Europe, and vowed to furnish our home only with objects we absolutely loved. 


I became pregnant with Little Miss C and made plans to quit my job. J was self-employed, which I'd been supportive of, but as my due date loomed closer, I became increasingly anxious and badgered him to get a 'real' job. He tried to comfort me, saying that he had faith that we'd be taken care of, that God would make sure we were fine. I always replied that, "Being 'taken care of' doesn't necessarily mean we'll have money" and, "God's version of 'fine' and my version of 'fine' are not the same."


I was scared.


I had no idea how frightened and traumatized I truly was until a few years later when we went to see Cinderella Man. It takes place during the Great Depression. During one scene, the mother waters down the milk to make it last another meal, and in another, the son steals meat from the butcher because he's afraid that if they don't have enough to eat, he'll be sent away to live with relatives. I walked out of the theater shaking, crying, and trying hard not to throw up. 


I couldn't explain my reaction to J except to say that it was as if all the fear I'd felt as a child had come rushing back at the sight of the on-screen plight of the characters. I spent the next two weeks discussing it with our therapist, and came to discover that I had a twisted view of my Heavenly Father. I expected Him to make life hard. I felt guilty for the life I now led and kept expecting the other shoe to drop. I was suspicious and terrified of Him. I didn't really have faith. 


Around this time, J began working for a TV show. He still had commitments to his own business, so he was working two jobs and commuting three hours a day. I had E, a baby in constant pain with reflux, and slipped into a deep, dark depression as I cared for him night and day. It was one of the hardest periods of my life, and yet I grew to know the Lord in a way I never had before. I began to pray to Him in earnest, see His hand in my life, and trust that He truly did love me.


Two years ago, when J lost his job, I felt that I'd finally overcome my fear of money insecurity. I trusted that Heavenly Father had sufficiently prepared me for this new period of self-employment, and I honestly  didn't feel overly worried.


Until last week.


For 3 days last week, our debt was doubled and I was a complete and utter wreck. When I understood just how bad the loan was that we had signed, my body was filled with such pure, intense fear that I couldn't feel my hands. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and couldn't stop crying. I tried to find solace in faith, but my fear pushed it away. My mind was stuck in a never-ending spiral of worst-case scenarios until both J and my parents declared my reaction to be out-of-proportion to the problem. There was something deeper going on there.


For a few years now, I've been saying that, "Heavenly Father never gives us more than we can handle, and he knows me well enough to know I can't handle severe money problems." Perhaps that's true-- after all, we were able to cancel the loan and emerge from last week's fiasco unscathed-- but I don't think so. I think He needed me to see just how deep-seated my fear still is. Faith can't be contingent on life going the way I want or expect it to go. I have to accept the fact that I don't have control. My faith and trust need to be more absolute. 


I'm not certain how I'm going to accomplish that, but if I ask Him to help me, He will. I don't expect it to be easy, but one thing seems sure-- it can't be nearly as bad as that all-encompassing fear was. 


{image}

Prayer

Yesterday, I read that rescuers in Japan found a 4 month old baby girl and reunited her with her tearful parents. It was supposed to be a happy story {one of the few coming out of the earthquake and tsunami-ravaged area} but instead, all I could focus on was the fact that a mother had had her baby ripped from her arms and swept away by a tidal wave of black water. The horror of that fact consumed me all day, and the fragile happiness that I've experienced since Women's Conference threatened to shatter as I dwelt on the massive suffering going on half a world away. 


I pray for Japan. I pray for all those who are mourning or suffering or afraid. As helpless as I feel, I have to believe that the power of prayer will be more effective than the small amounts I'm able to contribute towards the church and the Red Cross for relief efforts. I have to believe that He will help where I cannot.