The Details of our Lives

President Thomas S. Monson once said, "Heavenly Father is in the details of our lives."
I have never been more aware of that fact than at this time.
He is with me when I wake.
He is with me as I teach my children, as I play with them, as I watch them.
He was with me this weekend when I fielded trigger after trigger with peace and serenity as I could literally feel the prayers of my sponsor and my mom lifting me through three solid days with my husband's family (usually trigger central for me).
He is with me as I deal with the grief of losing someone while trying to maintain boundaries with my husband.
He is with my family members and friends--the ones I worry about and lose sleep over and shed tears for while praying on my knees.
He is in the details.
And I have been noticing.
My heart is full.

Screaming

My husband's grandpa passed away this Sunday.

He got a call at 6:00 that morning--it was his mom: "Come quick, Grandpa's had an aneurysm."

We jumped out of bed, got dressed in a hurry, somehow arranged for wonderful people to take care of our kids, then drove the four hours it took us to get to the hospital Grandpa was located in (it's nothing short of a miracle that I didn't get a ticket--I didn't drive less than 20 mph above the speed limit the entire way down), and then, the trauma started.

From the moment my husband answered the phone, he locked down.  

Put up a wall.  

Shut down completely.  

Went into his survival mode where the only person he can even think about is himself and all of the crazy emotions he was going through as the man who helped raise him, the one responsible for the most positive experiences he had in his childhood, passed away in front of our eyes.

Only it wasn't that fast.  We got there at nine that morning and Grandpa didn't pass till 11:00 that night.

And for that entire day, I was completely, absolutely, infinitely alone, surrounded by a family who "just doesn't talk about things" and sitting next to a man who was so wrapped up in his own pain that he couldn't even begin to recognize, much less respond to mine.

Have you ever seen someone die?  

It's nothing like in the movies--in fact, I've heard it described as similar to going through labor.  It takes work and pain to bring life into the world, and it takes work and pain to leave it.

And as a family, we sat and watched that experience together, only we weren't really together.  Not really.

I kept trying to reach out to the husband--take his hand, put my arm around him, hug him, talk to him, and every. single. time I reached out, he shut me down.

Rejected me.

Ignored me.

Pulled away.

The wall--a wall made of  ice, thick, cold, and completely impenetrable--was up.  And although I was screaming on the other side of that wall, beating the wall with my fists until they were raw and bleeding, begging him to let me in, he couldn't--wouldn't--hear me or let me in.

After all, he was in survival mode.

Finally, after hours of sitting in a room where the air was thick with the feeling of death next to a man who couldn't care less whether I was there or not, I left.  I didn't say a word, I just got up and walked outside and found a place to sit where I let myself FEEL.  I screamed, I cried, I called my sponsor and left a completely incoherent message on her voice mail, and then I prayed.

I told God how angry I was with my husband, the guilt I felt about making his grandpa's death all about me, the shame I felt for feeling so much pain at the loss of my husband's support, and I asked Him to take all of the selfish things I was feeling away from me.

I tried to surrender, I really did.  I tried to use the Atonement, and I really did feel a little peace.

But then I walked back into the building only to find out that grandpa had passed while I was outside feeling sorry for myself, and then I lost it.  I stormily broke down in a corner of the room, wishing I could somehow hide, sobbing and crying as my shoulders shook with the pain of losing another grandparent (one I had considered as good as my own from the time we met 8 years ago), the guilt for being so selfish as to not be there for the actual passing, and the shame of crying so violently in front of a family who just doesn't do that kind of thing.  Grandma came and awkwardly patted my shoulder, then asked my husband to pray that we could all get through this with dignity as I tried to subtly wipe my snotty nose and swollen eyes with the completely saturated handful of Kleenex I was gripping with all my might.

I hate the fact that I'm an ugly crier.

And my husband sat across the room, completely oblivious to my pain, so wrapped up in his own that he couldn't think of trying to share his burden with me or even recognizing that I needed him to need me.  As I glanced around the room and saw his brother weeping into his wife's arms and my father-in-law gripping my mother-in-law's hand, I realized that something was very wrong with the fact that my husband and I were across the room from each other and he didn't even seem to care whether I was there or not.

Am I crazy to be so hurt by this?

When I brought it up to him on the four-hour drive home yesterday, he listened, apologized, then defended himself.  "I was just doing what worked.  I had to get through it, and I did.  Just because it's different than how you want me to deal with it, doesn't mean it's necessarily wrong.  It's just different, and it worked for me--I didn't completely fall apart."

But I did.

I completely fell apart.

And I have no idea how to get myself put back together enough to deal with the funeral this Friday.

No idea.

Competition vs. Compassion

I still remember the first time I realized that I was a competitive person--on my mission, my first companion was a physical education major from BYU who was always just seconds faster than me on all of our morning runs.  I was straight from a schedule of lots of eating and lots of sitting at the MTC, and so as we ran together for the six weeks we were companions, I got increasingly frustrated at always being 15 to 20 yards behind her the whole time we ran.
As we had a companionship inventory at one point, I brought up the frustration that her fast running was causing me.  "I'm not competitive," I started, and she started to laugh.
"Sister, you say you're not competitive, but you're the only companion I've ever had who got the least bit irritated with how fast I run.  I'd say you're pretty darn competitive!"  She seemed to find it humorous, and after some prayer and soul-searching, I noticed that what I had always denied about myself was actually true.
I am competitive.
I have a tendency to compare myself--for better or for worse--to the people around me.
I even get cranky when I get schooled in board games, which is a big reason my husband and I can't play card games together.  He always wins.
Problem is, competition, or even its close cousin, contention, is not of God.  In fact, Christ said it pretty succinctly when He said that "he that hath the spirit of contention is not of me, but is of the devil..."
As I sent my list o' forgiveness to my sponsor, she called me with an incredible insight that I completely missed--I have a tendency to compare myself to all of the people on my list.  Every single one of those people I saw through a lens of competition rather than compassion, especially the two that I'm having the most difficulty with forgiving.
I resent their selfishness.
I resent their immaturity.
I resent their lack of compassion towards me and towards my loved ones.
And I do feel tempted to feel superior towards them.
However, that's not a freeing way to feel--that's not the way Christ would have me feel towards them, and so that's where praying for charity and true forgiveness comes in.  I can't force forgiveness, any more than I can force an answer from the Spirit, but I can and will continue to have a desire to forgive these two family members--to feel that free gift of charity that "he hath bestowed upon all who are true followers of his Son, Jesus Christ," a definition I absolutely desire would describe me.
Today, I got the impression this morning to send some sort of message to the two family members that I'm struggling with, so I sent a snapchat to one, and a text to another, letting them know that I hoped that they had a good day today, and I genuinely meant it.
It's not a big deal--I couldn't do any more than that for now, but it's a start.  It's a start.

Ohhhh, the Irony

Sometimes, Heavenly Father whispers to me.  He nudges, He caresses, and then He waits until I'm willing to listen.
Other times, He shouts.  Today was one of those days.
This week, I started working on Step 8, you know, the one where you're supposed to become prepared to make amends to people that you've hurt?
Only problem was, before I even got to the point of humbling myself enough to be aware of who I might have wronged, my mind was filled with the names and experiences of people I knew I needed to forgive.  So, as I worked my Recovery on Monday morning, I prayed, then I sat in front of my computer screen and tried to be completely open to those people I needed to let go of resentments for as I typed.  The names that came up and the reasons for them completely blew me away--a few names (my dad and my husband, for example), didn't even come up at all, and then there were other names that were on there of people I hadn't even realized I was harboring resentments towards--some of the resentments were really stupid, pointless reasons (a sister-in-law who never visited me when she was in town last week, for example), and others were much more deep-rooted, but through the whole page of writing ran a stream of vitriol I was shocked to see that I was capable of.
I looked at my list after it was done, and I prayed.  With most of the names on my list (there were probably about ten people total), I was able to feel the peace of forgiveness and assurance quickly, but there are two names left on my list that I'm really still having to work towards.  These two people are family members, which of course gives me plenty of justification for being offended by them and plenty of opportunities to be freshly offended by them on quite a regular basis, and although none of the offenses are entirely serious, I can still feel them rankling in my bosom--this irritation that won't quite go away, this willingness to automatically assume the worst about them, this unkindness in my thoughts towards them.
I look for excuses to still feel angry towards these two people, and I don't like that I do that.
I've been praying for these two family members for a few days, but was still feeling justified in feeling irritated towards them even this morning, and then I went to Sacrament Meeting today.
The speaker, a high councilman, was both inspired and inspiring, and between pulling kids out from under the bench, chasing down runaway crayons, and wiping chewed-up Fruit Loops off of my dress, I was busy wiping away the tears that streamed down my cheeks as he spoke of forgiveness and grace in a way that touched my soul deeply.
He spoke of the book "Les Miserables," and read a quote describing those people who are so interested in other peoples' flaws and secrets that the only joy they have is from putting people "in their place."
He then spoke of our need to forgive others--our need to love them, to look for the good in them, to help them in their times of need, and as he did, although I did feel guilty for still justifying my resentment for these two people, I was filled with hope--I knew, I just knew, that as I continued to pray for at least a desire to forgive these people that that forgiveness would come.  And as I seek to forgive, I know that burden will be laid down at the Savior's feet, and He will take care of it for me.
"Is it not the most fallen who have most need of charity?”
~Victor Hugo

So Now What?

Last Wednesday, my dad and mom came over and sat down in our front room, holding hands, and faced my husband and I for a serious talk.
My dad looked me in the eyes as he told me of his most recent behavior--while he hasn't relapsed or acted out with his previous pornography addiction (one I've known about since I was 18), he has been using avoidance behaviors at work, and so he has lost his job--a job that our whole family thought he loved and was remarkably good at, but one that it turns out he hated and avoided through Internet browsing.
Thankfully, he has a new job provided for him, but my parents aren't sure if the salary will be enough for them to pay the mortgage on the home we've had since I was a child, so although there have been many tender mercies, there will still be some pretty steep consequences for his behavior--consequences that will affect the entire family.
My stomach knotted as I watched him and my mom, looking at each other, and then hearing my mother softly cry in the background as my dad said something that struck me incredibly powerfully: "Your mother has always given me her entire self.  She has always let me see the good and the bad both, but because I was so ashamed to let her see what I saw as the worst parts of myself, I always tried to hide things from her, thinking it was because I was trying to become what I wanted to be.  In reality, I hid them because I was afraid. Since this last Sunday, I have decided to be completely and totally honest with her in every way.  I don't want to hide from her anymore."
At that moment, seeing my mom looking up at my dad with so much love and patience, rather than feeling angry with my dad for his irresponsible behavior, I was surprised to find that I was both sad and jealous.
I was jealous of the honesty they had, and I knew that that kind of honesty--that openness, was what I wanted in my own marriage.
And I didn't have it.
Afterwards, I let myself cry for as long as I wanted (I'm trying to learn how to emote rather than hold my feelings down--a habit that's harder than it sounds), and then my husband and I sat down and talked.
Surprisingly enough, we both came away with the same exact perspective--we each felt compassion and respect for my dad, and we both wanted that kind of honesty in our own marriage.  But we did nothing about it that night, and even though I had a few things come to mind that I felt I needed to share with him, I didn't have the courage to tell him out loud just yet.
So, the tension built.
And built.
And built.
We tried to keep things cheerful and positive for the kids, but I could feel the distance growing exponentially, and by Sunday night, when it came time for bed, I couldn't figure out how to sleep--the stranger in bed beside me felt so alien that I couldn't bring myself to sleep with him.  My gut kept screaming at me to get out, to escape, to get away.
So I did--for the first time in my married life, I voluntarily slept separately from my husband.  I grabbed a blanket and a pillow and slept on the couch, and the moment my head hit the pillow, I felt that peaceful feeling that always comes when I follow my instinct and find out that it was the right thing to do.
Sleep then came easily, and when I woke up the next morning, my worried husband was standing over me.
"What did I do?  Why were you sleeping in here?" I could see the hurt in his eyes--sleeping together is usually very important to both of us.
I was still too groggy to try to get into all of the details, so I gave a partial truth: "You were snoring."
He let it slide, still worried, and I felt the tension return immediately.  I had to tell him the truth, but I knew it would be hard with the kids up and awake--it wasn't a good time.
The lie I told wouldn't leave me alone, however.  It kept building and building, until finally, I had to let it all out before I burst.
"I lied." I spat.  I knew I sounded hard, angry, but he kept eye contact, never wavering.  I went on.  "Last night, I didn't sleep with you because I didn't feel close to you.  There's something keeping us apart.  And I can't figure it out.  I'm trying so hard to be honest, to communicate, but I'm being blocked."
I could see the tears welling up in his eyes, which softened my heart and lessened my frustration, just a bit.  I reached across the table and took his hand in mine.  "You are so important to me.  I want to make this work, but right now, I just can't.  And I don't know why."
Just then, Child #2 came in, whining about how Child #1 had taken his favorite superhero toy, and Child #3 followed him with her diaper trailing halfway down her leg, happily hugging her favorite doll.
He blinked the tears back, then squeezed my hand.  "Can we finish this conversation after the kids are down for naps?  I want to talk to you."
I nodded, wiping back my own tears, and we somehow got the kids through lunch and down for naps before we retreated to our room.
We sat down on the bed, where he proceeded to disclose something to me.  Something big--something that he had kept hidden from me since before we were married.
The amazing thing, though, was that I wasn't surprised--even as he began speaking, the Spirit whispered to me, letting me know what was coming, and I immediately had brought to my mind several instances where I had wondered, guessed, thought that perhaps, maybe?  And now that feeling--that inkling--was being validated.
I had known about it all along.
And as the man I loved more than life itself broke down sobbing, telling me something he had never told another living person before, through no virtue of my own, I was filled with complete and overwhelming love.  I LOVED him, perfectly, thoroughly, completely--and I had only compassion for him and relief that he was finally relieving himself of this burden.
I let him talk and cry, I cried with him through his pain, and then--silence.
Peaceful silence.
The truth was out, and it had set him free--to some extent.  Free from the worry that I would hate him for lying to me, free from the fear that I would leave him if I knew, free from the burden of such a secret to bear on his own.
But still not completely free.
We talked for a while longer, I shared all of the things that had come to my mind that I needed to be honest with him about, and then--
"Now what?" I asked.  "Do you want to talk to a counselor?  Our bishop?  Do you want to start recovery?"
"I dunno," he responded.  "It's taken me a full year to get up the courage to tell you.  Give me some time, okay?"
I felt that it was a reasonable request, so I agreed.
I know the anger, the betrayal, the trauma from being lied to for so long will hit me eventually.  I know it will, and I'm trying to be prepared for it--to experience it fully, to acknowledge it, to surrender it to God when it does come.  In the meantime, I'm trying to be patient as I wait for him to continue on the healing process in his own way and time.
For now, I finally know the truth.
But now what?

Be Still

Yesterday morning, I decided I was going to kick my depression in the butt.
I woke up, I GOT up (rarely two simultaneous events these days), and I got working.
I made pancakes for breakfast.
I did the dishes.
I folded the three weeks' worth of clean laundry that had been sitting in my laundry room so that my children could once again find some clean underwear to wear.
I started picking up my room...
and then I crumbled.
I couldn't do it.  I didn't have it in me to fake it.  I was yelling at the kids, I was crying at my husband, and I was miserable.
And I felt guilty for being miserable.
So, I finally called my sponsor (after hiding from her for the past two weeks), and talked.  And cried.  And talked some more, and she let me know--I needed some self-care.
Not curling up in front of a movie with a bowl of ice cream style of self-care....I didn't need to numb myself.
I needed to be still.
She suggested a walk, so after I studied and prayed and took the time to be still for a while, my husband and I took the kids to the park, and I watched them play.  I didn't hover, I didn't force myself to participate, I just watched.
And was still.
Then, when we got home and I got them to bed, I did some yoga.  And during the savassanah phase, where the instructor asked me to lay down and be still--the part I usually fast-forward, because it's not "real" exercise, I was still.
It's hard to be still when you want to escape from the darkness of your thoughts, when you want to run, to hide, to ignore or numb who you are and what you're feeling--but sometimes, that's what the Lord commands us to do: "Be still and know that I am God."
And last night, when I fell into my bed and was still yet again, I felt it.
Peace.
Be still.