Not Forgotten

The trial date had been set.  With the knowledge that it would be just months away I felt our life, in our blended family, would be able to start for real once it was complete. I constantly longed for the day when I could walk in that courtroom and let my voice be heard, and I truly believed that our new life would really begin once it was over.

Since our marriage, all that I thought would change in our “new life” did not. Every morning I would sit on my bathroom counter and rehearse the words I would say at the trial in my mind as I applied my makeup. I still continued to scream at Rob, Kandi, and Emmett when driving alone in the quiet solitude of my car. I still had triggers that would ignite and throw me back in time. I still struggled with anxiety about leaving my house. I was insecure in my marriage, and in the role of being a wife. However, in my heart . . . I truly thought that the single moment the trial ended so would all of the issues in myself, and in our family.

We swept a lot of our adjustment problems as a blended family under the rug, as to keep our selves stable for the pending trial. We knew it was our biggest issue, so any others that would arise seemed to be so small. We had a few small arguments about the kids, but for the most part it seemed I was still running on autopilot in an effort to make it to court. Anything else was petty and trivial, and therefore left unresolved and pushed aside.

Soon the trial was only a few weeks away. I craved the moment when I would get to read my victim statement and let that courtroom hear my pain. The silence I had forced upon myself was ready to break in that courtroom and I almost counted down the days when I could look Rob in the eye and tell him how his actions broke my family.

One morning the big kids were at school and the little ones and I were at the grocery store. We were almost done with our list when my phone rang, a blocked number . . . pit in my stomach. It was the victim witness coordinator, “Ashlee, hey . . . so the . . . the trial . . . they are going to have to move the date. We had all planned it being next month, but they are thinking they need another six months or so for everyone to collect more evidence and get all the tests back, like the gunpowder residue reports and the bullet wound specialists, and all the angles of the evidence. I know this is going to be hard for you to continue to wait for, but I hope you will understand why they . . . they just need more time.”

We talked for a while about what this delay would mean for me. She was very thoughtful as she spoke and reassured me that they were working as hard as they could to find the truth in every aspect of the case. The truth, a desire I needed just as much as them. I felt confident in waiting as we hung up the phone and I continued in my shopping.

I walked around the store with almost no emotion, feeling brave and strong. I unloaded my groceries out of the cart and robotically bagged each one. After paying the clerk and getting all of my sacks back in the cart I could feel my tears trying to find their way out. I had a panic raging, but it was a new form of emotion. Not a panic of “is this ever going to end” like I thought it might be, it was like that phone call drilled a hole in my heart. It was a deeper despair than any I had ever felt.

Waiting longer for the trial was going to destroy me; I could feel it. Though the outcome wouldn’t make a difference in my life, waiting for it created space for another void of loss to grow inside of me. I longed for that trial; I yearned to hear the full story and put all the missing pieces together in my head. I needed to hear from all the specialists, and witnesses . . . what they had seen and heard. I hoped that their stories would help feel in the gaps in my own.

As I pushed my cart full of food and children out to the car tears silently streamed down my face. Six more months until I could look Rob in the eye and ask him why? More mornings that I would try to apply mascara through my tears. Months left to wait to read my victim statement that now played like an old screeching record inside of my heart.

My despair sank deep in my soul. My life felt heavy as I drove home from the store and unloaded the groceries. Everything around me looked dark.

For the next few days I was a stone cold zombie. I didn’t even know how to feel. I felt so disconnected from my family and especially from Shawn. I tried so hard to push away the gloom, but nothing seemed to make me want to smile. I didn’t want to wallow in it, but I didn’t know how I was going to let it go.

That next weekend was the Relief Society broadcast for LDS General Conference. A few friends invited me to go, but in my self pitied gloom I told them I had other plans. I didn’t really have anything else going on, except for my own personal pity party.

As the afternoon began to turn into evening on Saturday, the day of the broadcast, something kept urging me to let go of my bitterness and go with my friends. I fought it all day long. Shawn asked me all day what was wrong but I never opened up to him. After asking me what was wrong for the twentieth time I told him what I was struggling with. I was feeling too dark to attend the broadcast. As those words left my lips, I knew what I needed to do. I headed to my closet and threw on a skirt.

I walked into the living room where my family was playing. I could see their beautiful eyes, and I could hear their tender voices, but I could not feel an ounce of their love. They all gave me a kiss and I headed out to the garage and got into my car.

As the door shut I could again feel darkness sink a little deeper inside of me. I offered a small prayer, “Heavenly Father, I know it is so simple compared to the past but this date change for the trial is weighing on my heart. I can’t seem to feel anything but utter despair. Somehow I am waiting to take my next breath when this trial gets over, and the thought of waiting to breath for another six months is going to kill me. I . . . I just . . . I need to know that you are still here. I feel so alone, I am so scared, and though this murder trial isn’t going to bring Emmett back, I feel like . . . it has to come to help me heal.  We aren’t living life as we wait, so why can’t it just be now, so I can let it go. I can’t feel anything, I can’t even feel the spirit today. Everything is like a black fog and I am scared that if I go another six months living like this, I am not going to be able to feel anything ever again. I just, I feel like, maybe somewhere along the way . . . you don’t remember I am still here . . . I feel so forgotten.”

My car pulled into the parking lot, and my prayer was cut short. I looked into the review mirror. I quickly swiped my fingers under each eye in hopes that no one would notice I had been bawling like a baby.

Everyone was still eating their dinner in the gym. I walked in. I could see the friends who had invited me all sitting around a table in the back. I passed my sister in law and all of her cute friends. She came over and gave me a big hug and asked me to sit with them. I already felt guilty that I had told my friends that I had other plans and I had showed up any way, so I decided to go sit with them. 

After most of the girls had finished eating they headed into the chapel to get seats. It was just one other girl and me left at our table. I didn’t know her that well and hadn’t had a chance to talk much with her.  She asked a few questions about me, and then about the trial. Like a broken dam had just burst I spewed out parts of my story that I had hardly told anyone. The single world, “trial” sparked in me all the anger I had about the postponed date and my new knowledge that I had to keep my pain bottled up even longer. She just stared at me in complete shock. She listened for a few more minutes. It felt good to open up and let out some of my pain.

I walked into the broadcast just as they were about to say the opening prayer. My sudden spew of emotion at the dinner table hadn’t brought me any more feeling of peace, but a darker despair that seemed to be swirling even harder around my mind.

The speakers began. I listened, still without feeling, to each of their words. Hoping for a time when I could go back and reread their truths, I tried hard to take notes for myself for later. One talked about what she wants her granddaughters to know someday. Another speaker spoke about charity. The last woman talked about holding fast to our promises that we make.

The last speaker was announced. Uchtdorf! He had always been one of my favorites, so I was excited on this day of feeling emotionally numb to hear his words.

He began. He said he was excited to be speaking and how honored he was to be there. Then his talk began.

Read or listen to full talk here: Forget Me Not by Dieter F. Uchtdorf

As he spoke about the tiny “forget me not” flower and picturing it surrounded by all the other large flowers in the garden, like it was pleading with the Lord, “Forget me not, O Lord” my ears perked up. The very plea I had just cried to Heavenly Father in my car. Just like that tiny flower, I had prayed for a glimpse that I was not forgotten. 

Then he spoke about Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’s “golden ticket”. He taught that when we wait around for a golden ticket, we miss the simple pleasure of opening up a candy bar and eating the chocolate. His entire talk he spoke about truths I had always known, yet somehow that week I had forgotten. He bore his testimony about how not one of us are forgotten to the Lord. Every minute of his talk was a like I was the flowering “forget me not” opening up and standing tall, being proud to be a tiny little flower amongst the beautiful roses. He reminded me that though my problems were overwhelming and seemed impossible, I was not forgotten.  All the anger in my heart quickly faded with each word that he spoke.

I knew that his words were not just for me because I wasn’t even supposed to be there that day, but I had come that night just for them.  His soul spoke to mine, as he reminded me that I was not forgotten.

The trial was not what was going to bring me to peace. It was not my “golden ticket” to happiness. The only golden ticket that would free me from my pain was Jesus Christ. Maybe the people in the courts had forgotten how this delay would affect me, but I was not forgotten by Him. Just because the moment I was waiting for had been delayed, didn’t mean I was alone. For the first time that week, I felt His love surround me and I knew without a doubt I was not forgotten.

Just like the tiny forget me not flower, God knew right where I was no matter how small I felt. Heavenly Father wanted me to remember Him as my “golden ticket”, and not seek for one in my life.

There is no “golden ticket” that will come our way. There is no golden ticket in forgiveness. Even when we feel have we done all that we can to forgive others, another opportunity may come our way to learn a different angle of the virtue. We may also find that all the forgiveness we have done, has been just the tip of the ice berg on our journey to true forgiveness. One moment of acknowledging a road to forgiveness is not necessarily the “golden ticket” to the end of its path.

There is no worldly golden ticket that can free us from our pain. No amount of money, clothes, cars, or houses will bring eternal happiness. Not even another person’s words or admiration can free us from the pain inside of us. The false “golden tickets” that the world will send us, may bring temporary relief . . . but they will not heal our hearts.

There is no golden ticket or free pass from fear. Fear and anxieties are real. I was reminded just the other night, that even when I think I have fear under control, it can find a new angle to try to destroy me.   

There is no “golden ticket” from any of the hardships we will face. There is no grand event that will teach us all we need to know. Every day is part of our test of mortality, every hour a new lesson on forgiveness, patience, humility, and love. Don’t spend your life waiting for your “golden ticket” of happiness when there are wonderful things all around you.

I couldn’t feel my family's love, and it was right there in front of me. I was waiting around for the trial to come and be my “golden ticket”. I thought it’s magnificent power would heal my broken heart, close my open wounds, uncloud my dark mind, and help me let go of my pain. And as I waited for it, I lost the moments that were passing me by.

No day is going to be your “golden ticket”. All of us are waiting for something: to be married; to be a parent; to graduate high school; to move to our dream house; to be free of health issues; to be done with college; to lose weight; to not be held back by fear of the past. The lists of things we wait for are never ending. What if today was our last day, and the only thing we had left was right now? I bet as we looked back over our lives, we would wish that we would have spent today enjoying all the little pieces of chocolate that were staring us in the face, instead of opening each wrapper hoping it held the secret ticket to our happiness.

If we don’t enjoy what we have right now, we may never find happiness. It is easy to wait around for your dreams to come true, but not as easy seeing the dreams that are already being played. There is a golden ticket that can bring eternal happiness. It is the knowledge of the truth that lies in each of us. We all have the potential to find the light of the world inside our hearts: the truth that we are not alone; the truth that even though we seem small . . . we are never forgotten.

Blood

One afternoon, I got a call from the detectives letting me know that Rob had requested the release of his truck after it had been held as evidence. I stubbornly shot back my response to that information. “Well, then I request the release of Emmett’s truck as well.” I wasn’t sure that I was really ready to have his brand new truck returned, but I certainly didn’t want Rob to be getting a privilege while “out on bond” that I myself wasn’t receiving as a law-abiding citizen of our community.

Within days, my request was approved and the detectives called to say they were on their way to deliver the truck back to me. I was nervous to see it again. I was afraid of what I would find inside, and I was scared of how my body would react to having that truck parked in my driveway again. Most importantly, I was nervous to drag Shawn through another reminder of my past.

I paced around the house, trying to mentally prepare myself. Soon, there was a knock at my door. My heart pounded as I opened it to the familiar faces of the detectives from the police department. I walked outside, followed by Teage. Kaleeya and Tytus were asleep and the twins were at school, and we didn’t have Jordyn that day. So it was just Teage and me.

The detectives and I chit-chatted for a few minutes while Teage peeked inside the truck’s windows. They told me they had run it through a carwash on their way over to make certain that all of Emmett’s blood had been washed off before I saw it. Just the thought of his blood being on the side of the truck made my own blood grow cold. Shivers ran down my spine and goose bumps popped out all over me. I glanced over toward the truck, trying hard not to get emotionally involved as they talked about the blood that had been on it.

They were very thoughtful and caring as we talked for a few more minutes, and then they headed out. As they drove off, I stood near the vehicle with the keys burning my hand like hot coals. Teage begged me to let him get inside the truck to see what he could find. At first, I resisted to protect my son and myself. I stood frozen, with a million thoughts running through my mind.

That truck almost stood there mocking me. It had seen it all. It had carried the victim straight into the line of fire. It was as black as the hole it made in my heart.

I thought back to the day Emmett had first pulled it into the driveway. He was so proud to finally have his dream car. He had talked about it for years, and finally the time had come. He walked me through every detail of his new prized possession. He showed me how to push every button, and talked up all the special features that were included in his purchase. He was so proud of it in every way.

 I pictured the afternoon he had packed the back seat with kids and taken the three oldest to a BSU game. They were so excited to be going with their daddy. I thought about our date nights we spent driving around town. I pictured the false alarm nights we drove down to the hospital thinking Tytus was coming . . . and all of the long drives back home after being turned away. I smiled as I pictured my doughnut dropping crumbs all over that truck. It was a meager trophy for another rejection from the hospital, but it was all my prego belly needed to patiently wait for the next drive it would take in that truck down to the hospital.

I pictured that truck as it drove up to Walgreens on the night of Emmett's death. All of the sudden Teage tried to grab the keys out of my hands, which quickly snapped me out of my funk. I looked down at him, remembering our cathartic day at Walgreens. That day had turned out to be a leap of healing, and I could feel this one was going to need such a blessing. I stared into his giant blue eyes. I could see the longing he had in his heart, to be in his daddy’s truck. I almost chuckled to myself to think that I was ever going to change his mind, “You know what buddy? Here we go!”

I unlocked the passenger-side door and pulled it open. The truck still smelled new. Emmett’s gym bag was in the back seat, and the entire truck looked exactly like it had the last time I had been inside it. I sat in the passenger seat while Teage jumped into the back. My breathing became heavier, and I could feel myself begin to panic. I asked Teage if he was ready to go back inside the house, but he replied that he wasn’t ready. I tried to remain calm and then asked him a few more times.

Teage wouldn’t get out. He refused to leave the truck. For a few minutes, I continued to calmly beg him to go inside with me, and then it hit me . . . I needed this too.

So now, I had a silent partner who craved the search for clues almost more than I did. He rummaged through the back seat, while I read every receipt and went through all of the console compartments I could find. I knew that all the evidence needed for the case would have been kept at the police department, but I searched for more clues anyway.

It was almost like I had been building a puzzle. Each bit of information and every new fact that would arise would give me another piece. Having that truck parked in front of my house was like finding a missing piece to my puzzle.  I had run out of things to read in the box in the garage, and after my bad experience with Emmett’s email account, I vowed to never go looking there ever again. The truck gave me a desire to search a whole new realm of the past.

I turned the ignition on and pushed play on the CD player. The music had Emmett’s typical punk flavor, but with a romantic twist. It was a song I had never heard before. I pushed eject. The CD had been made the day of his death, and the date was written in his own handwriting. I cringed thinking about that. Had this CD been made for her?

Suddenly, my phone alarm went off, reminding me that it was time to go pick up the twins from school. I grabbed Teage out of the back seat and we ran inside to wake up the babies. They were both in a deep sleep. I disliked waking them up to go only a block to pick up the twins, but even more so on that day . . . I hated being forced to leave my search.

I got everyone buckled in their seats and we drove off to the school. I called Shawn on the way to share some of my emotions with him. He listened calmly and reassured me that everything was going to be okay. I got a little emotional and said, “This is so hard. I didn’t realize it was going to be so hard to have the truck back.”

The twins jumped into the car, and at the top of his lungs, Teage chirped, “Guys . . . Daddy’s truck is home! Want to play in it and pretend that he is driving us somewhere, when we get home?”

My heart sank. Here we go again. I knew that we were going to have another interesting night filled with memories of the past, but nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. I ended my conversation with Shawn just as we turned onto our street.

We pulled up into the driveway and parked in the garage. The kids hurried out of our Yukon and booked it to their dad’s truck, dropping their backpacks as they ran. They hopped inside, and for thirty minutes they rummaged through his stuff. They tried on his clothes, tied his tie around their necks, put his earphones in their ears, read all of the receipts, and pushed every button in that truck. They were having fun playing with his stuff, and I was actually enjoying myself as I listened to their laughter.

A short time later, Shawn’s truck pulled up. I was surprised to see him home so early, and I knew he had come to comfort me. He stepped out and I was surprised to see that he was as white as a ghost. I had feared the return of this truck might affect him as well. In many ways, he already felt like he was a replacement for Emmett . . . and now here Emmett’s truck sat in front of our house as a loud reminder of the past. 

He began to run toward me. He grabbed me and pulled me toward the house. “Ash . . . there is blood all over the other side of the truck. You can’t see it from this side, but it is all over the other side. Have the kids seen it?”

My throat began to close up. “No! What are we going to do? We haven’t gone over to that side. They CANNOT see it! That is their dad’s blood. I . . . I . . . can’t handle this . . .” I burst into tears and ran toward the truck. The kids were so into their make-believe, that they didn’t notice the tears in my eyes. I slowly walked around to the other side. Sure enough, the carwash had not removed the blood from the truck. As plain as day, Emmett’s truck was covered in his blood.

My heart dropped. I lost it. I don’t remember anything from that moment on, but soon I found myself running through my room and into my sanctuary. I was hysterical . . . again . . . alone in my closet. This time, I wasn’t in there begging for a “do-over.” I was begging for a “when is this going to be over?”

I had been in that closet so many times, but never before with a visual of the blood that Emmett had lost. My heart had hurt for the unknown of the past, but never before because of what I had viewed with my own eyes. Having that truck back was hard, but knowing that it carried the blood stains of a man that I loved was almost more than I could bear. I knew the mess of the past was not over, but I hadn’t known it was going to be so apparent on the side of that truck.

Here we were, trying so hard to move forward and gain ground from our past . . . and here was yet another bold, red, reminder of the blood that had been spilt. A literal reminder. I have no idea how long I stayed there in my closet, but I do know I was surprised that I could still shed so many tears.

I was again reminded that just because I had remarried and hoped for a new normal, that didn’t mean it was an overnight process. Every tear I shed that day was just as hard as the ones that had come before I met Shawn.

Once I calmed down, I knew I needed to get outside to help the kids in case they were also having a hard time. I swallowed the last of my tears and started to make my way outside. I went to the front window to scope out the situation. I wasn’t sure if anyone else had seen the blood, or how they were handling it, if they had.

I looked outside at a scene that is almost impossible to put into words. There was Shawn, covered in suds, along with all of the kids with scrub brushes in their hands . . . and together they were scrubbing Emmett’s truck.

No one was crying, and in fact, each child had a huge grin on his or her face. They were talking and laughing and having the time of their lives. For several minutes, I sat at that window with tears falling down my face. No mother has ever prepared to see a scene such as this. A moment that had initially seemed as if it were going to break me all over again, turned into a vision of hope and peace.

I watched out the window as my babies scrubbed their father’s blood off of his truck.

Shawn didn’t panic or run away. Instead, he jumped in and changed the course of that day. Not one of the kids ever saw the blood. Shawn didn’t say a word about why they were cleaning the truck. He made it a game, and he included each child as part of his team. He told them that they were cleaning the truck for Emmett.

Shawn did not step in as a replacement for Emmett. He came to save me from the many moments that would come to remind me of the past and try to break me.

Blood. It has the ability to stain, but it also has the potential to sustain life. It is such a powerful substance, and yet, when it is shed . . . it has the power to end a life and change the course of the lives of everyone around the victim.

Blood. It is the topic of so many courtroom proceedings. It is the focus of so many TV series and movies. We see it on our screens as if it is just a substance that can easily be replaced or removed. It’s not until we experience the shedding of blood in our own lives that we realize those characters on the big screens also have pulses. Those actors in the movies or television shows make it seem so simple. But in real life, when people die in cold blood, they also have families. Some of them are parents, and all of them are sons or daughters. They do not just have blood that falls to the ground; they also have communities surrounding them that suffer. Their blood isn’t the only thing lost as they fall.

In so many homes in our world, we play video games where we shoot guns at people as if it were a fun joke. It isn’t until blood is taken from us in real life that we truly realize that these games that cause us to view the shedding of blood as a sport . . . in reality, only minimize the sanctity of life.

Guns are real. Blood is not make-believe. Without blood, a person cannot survive.

What if, in our world, we were to view every life as important? What if we were able to see the soul of everyone we meet? What if we were to always think about our actions . . . before we act? I believe our world could be a lot different. If our lives were not taken for granted, then we might not view death as a sport.

Everyone has a story, and everyone has a past. Even your old crotchety neighbor was once a young carefree kid. Maybe his screams about your dog taking a crap on his lawn seem outlandish and over dramatic . . . but maybe that green grass is all he has left. Maybe he has seen the blood of someone he loved fall to the ground, or lost them tragically long ago. When we are alone or scared, it isn’t about the poop on the grass or the fly in our water. Reacting to those small irritants is usually merely an outlet for our pain over something else much more significant.

Take a step back. Watch for the panic in the eyes of those around you. Some may be running to their closets with nowhere else to go. They might have literally found the blood that has stained their heart. Some may be blind to the blood that is flashing in their face. Sometimes, you may be able to see the blood they are scrubbing off their father’s truck, and other times, you may just see the smiles that result from learning a new skill. It all depends on your view.

Nothing is as simple as it seems, and not everything is as monumental as it feels.

Blood has been spilt; mistakes have been made in all of our lives . . . be we mustn’t miss the suds foaming up around us to wipe the blood away. The blood on that truck was Emmett’s, but Shawn wasn’t afraid to take Emmett’s babies and teach them how to wipe it clean . . . for him.

I realized that day, even more than I knew it previously, that Shawn and Emmett were a team. Rob wasn’t the only one who had messed up. Emmett had made serious mistakes that got us to where we were that particular day, but he had also helped me find Shawn to assist his family in cleaning up his mess.

From the window that afternoon, I watched it take place, and I have seen it every day since. Shawn wasn’t sent to replace Emmett. No, he was prepared to carry us through in a way Emmett could not. He was there to help me clean up our past, so we could see the beauty that was all around us.

Shawn is not a perfect man. We have had so many bumps as a blended family that are yet to be told in our story. There have even been nights when we didn’t think we would make it, but in many moments . . . he has perfectly shown ME how to stand.

When our Savior suffered in Gethsemane, He bled from every pore. He physically felt every single pain every single person who ever walks the earth has felt or will feel. He felt the pain I have carried since Emmett’s death. He counted my babies’ tears. He felt the pain Emmett suffered that night as a bullet entered his skull and sank into his heart. He felt the sorrow of Emmett’s parents who have not only had to lose their son, but who have had to sit through a trial and hear every detail of how he was murdered. He has even felt the pain of those who sit in a jail cell all alone.

I know that not everyone will physically see with their own eyes the spilt blood that has caused them so much pain, but each one of us will, at one time or another, be wronged. Christ has felt the pain of every hurt.

He has fallen to his knees in pain. He has cried out, “Father, remove this cup from me.” He has wondered, “When will this pain ever be done.” Just like I fell to my knees praying for a promise that my pain would one day cease, our Savior has felt a hurt so excruciating that caused even Him to pray to see an end. He not only has felt our pain, He has prayed for a way out of it.

Knowing that we are not alone can help us remember that even our pain will one day find peace.

He didn’t suffer through that pain because it was easy, or because He wanted to . . . He did it because He loves each one of us. He knows each one of our names, He sees the honesty and sincerity of our hearts, and in the noble and honorable things we do, He smiles at our progress.

He sheds a tear as He watches his little ones scrub their own father’s blood off of trucks, but He also smiles as He sees the willing “fathers” step up to the plate. He knows these challenges are not easy. He knows there are not many willing to take on “burdens” such as this . . . but that is what makes those who do so special.

We are each unique and special in the moments when we stand. Don't wait around for the world to change, find a way to stand strong regardless of its constant spinning. Sometimes, it might feel like it slows down just for us, and other times it feels like we may never catch up. We weren't created to march to anyone else's beat; we were made to be original. 

No one will ever be right where you are, but Christ has been there. He has cleaned up the “blood” we have spilt through our poor choices, and He has bled from every pour . . . for us! Blood is real . . . and death is inevitable . . . but that is what makes life so precious. Never take a day for granted. The blood of this world has already been cleaned up by a loving Savior who has wiped it away for each and every one of us. All we have to do is ask, and He will willingly wipe our past clean. 

You are not forgotten, and your past is not insignificant. He has seen your tears and heard your prayers. Even your blood is enough for Him to purify. Tomorrow might still bring reminders of the messes that have been made in the past, but they can be made clean. Turn to the only one who has the power to scrub even the toughest of stains. Heavenly Father will never let one drop of blood go unaccounted for, and He will never forget one tear. He is the light and life of this world, and because of his blood . . . we can have Eternal life. 

Gravity

There came a time when the Attorney General’s office contacted me about participating in a Grand Jury. I didn’t know exactly what that meant, or what my role would be. They explained to me that it was kind of like a practice for the real thing; almost a mock trial to see what facts they had and how a jury would sentence the accused with the evidence they had collected. It sounded like a good way to see how prepared the prosecutors were to try Rob with the evidence and facts about the case they had gathered. I knew the defense would be requiring me to take the stand at the actual trial, and that thought was frightening, but I even felt anxiety about participating in this practice trial for the prosecution.

   

I was scared of the unknown. I spent the next few weeks nervous and skeptical about the questions I would be asked to answer. I imagined the moment over and over; I even asked myself questions and practiced my replies. They were always playing inside of me; it was like a weight that held onto my ankles and squeezed my heart everywhere I went. These questions were always in the back of my mind. I rehearsed in the shower, I stumbled over them as I changed diapers. Any moment when I was alone in the car, I would cry my answers out loud . . . usually ending in screams and anger, overwhelmed by the thought of taking the stand.

   

I was paralyzed by the fear that seemed to have taken over my thoughts. I went over and over all my memories of that night. I wished so badly that it had all been different, but the truth was what I had to state. I hated that the truth was so hard, and so humiliating. I knew I had to be prepared if I was going to be able to get on that stand and not break down. I knew it wasn’t the real deal, and that it was just a practice for the trial . . . but I worked myself up about it night and day.

   

I was very nervous about going to the courthouse. I was afraid that I would be there at the same time as some of the other witnesses. In all of our conversations about my participation, I made it very clear that I did not want to have even the possibility of running into Kandi in the halls. … I wanted to be in the building at different times than her. They assured me over and over that that would be the case.

   

An attorney friend of mine made arrangements to drive me down to the courthouse on the day the Grand Jury was set to take place. I was told they would start with Kandi’s testimony—since she was the only witness of Emmett’s death—and they would end with my testimony, Emmett’s wife. They had asked me to arrive around 2:00 p.m.

   

When we got to the office of the Victims’ Witness Coordinator, I was so scared that I was shaking. The thought that Kandi had been in the office earlier that day made my stomach turn. Since Emmett’s murder, I had not been in public once when I hadn’t searched for her. I looked in every car that passed me, making sure we were not driving on the same road. I hadn’t gone anywhere without the fear that we would meet, and now, here we were in the same building . . . on purpose. It seemed out-of-this-world and unreal that if, by chance, I took the wrong elevator or went down the wrong hallway . . . we could actually meet face to face.

   

The girl in the front office told me to sit in the waiting room chairs. The coordinator finally made her way up to tell us what was going on. She looked distraught, “Hey . . . I am so sorry that we had you come this early. She is still on the stand and she has been for hours. We are just scratching the surface of what they need her to share. You will have to wait here until she is done, and the other witnesses get their chance to take the stand and be questioned. We still have you on the schedule as the final witness.”

So I waited. My heart pounded and my body shook as I sat in the quiet, alone with my thoughts.

Everyone in that courtroom was being told facts that I didn’t even know: facts about how my husband died, truths that only Kandi knew. I didn’t know anything. I hadn’t yet learned that Emmett had driven her in his car, and that they had spent the evening together before they met up with Rob at Walgreens. I hadn’t learned that the two men didn’t even touch each other when Rob confronted Emmett. I didn’t hear Emmett’s last words. He wasn’t there to fight for me. I didn’t hear the gun shots or see the blood dripping from his wounds. I wasn’t there to hold his head as he took his last breath . . . but she was there.

     

I hated the fact that as I sat up in this quiet office waiting, she was sitting in front of a group of people telling them all the things I didn’t even know. I hated the fact that complete strangers were in there being given the answers to all the questions that still played out in my nightmares. They were getting answers to the questions they asked . . . while I sat in silence.

   

What seemed like hours passed, and my turn finally came. I was almost excited as I walked into that room full of strangers. They didn’t know me. … I was just another victim to them. They hadn’t sat in my living room, on my black couch, with the detectives that night. They didn’t see the looks on my babies’ faces when they were told that their dad had been shot; they hadn’t seen the tears running down my cheeks for weeks after Emmett’s murder. It was almost as if I couldn’t wait to let it all out . . . and show them that this victim still had a voice. That gun had nearly destroyed me . . . but I still had a pulse.

   

I raised my hand and promised to tell the truth, and nothing but the truth. With my heart pounding, I took my seat.

“Please state your full name.” I opened my mouth to speak . . .  but my emotions began to take over, and no words came. The bailiff asked me to repeat. “Ashlee Corrigan . . . A S H L E E   C O R R I G A N.” My voice cracked as I pronounced each letter; it was as if my mouth were filled with saltine crackers. My throat was so dry, and the words that rolled around inside of it had no way to get out.

   

As soon as my name left my lips, my eyes began to burn. How could this be real? This couldn’t possibly be my life I was going to be questioned about. It couldn’t be my husband who died. …This wasn’t our story! Suddenly, I didn’t want to be here. The fight or flight mechanism programed inside of me set off its alarm . . . and I started to panic. The attorney could tell I was losing it. He said, “You are a little emotional. … Are you doing okay? … Do you . . .  want . . .”

   

I tried so hard to get my voice to come out again. “Yes, I just . . . this is . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . I will be fine.” I was shaking hysterically. I took a few deep breaths, hoping to put on my smile and not let my completely distraught internal freak-out be witnessed by all. Everything inside of me wanted to scream. I wanted to tell them everything that WE had been through . . . everything I had been forced to witness my kids live through. I wanted to shout about all the nights I had been tapped on the shoulder, and about all the tears that had been shed by me and by my children huddled together in my bed. I wanted to let all these strangers know that I wasn’t just a victim . . . I was me . . . I was his wife . . . I was the mother of his babies. And we were still here . . . and we were still trying to figure out how to live. We had been forced into accepting our sentence. We hadn’t chosen this life . . . and they all needed to know about it!!! Forcing myself to be silent, I sat . . . and waited for my opportunity to let my voice be heard.

   

The jury was told they could ask me any questions they wanted. I don’t really remember much about their questions or any of my answers. I have no idea of how long I was there or how many questions I answered. I know that I spoke a lot about the events of that night, before he left our house. My soul ached for the Emmett I loved, as I told the story about the last words he spoke to me. My heart broke because of the unavoidable truth . . . that it had been her he was fighting for, not me.

     

I never did get to say all that was in my heart; their questions didn’t allow my needs to be fulfilled. All they needed to know about is what transpired that night. The questions seemed to finally slow down, and I thought my time on the stand was coming to an end. My body began to settle down.

   

And then it came: the question I knew I would have to answer . . . the question to which everyone wanted to know the answer . . . the question I will never forget. “Before your husband died, did you know that he and Kandi were having an affair?” Everyone froze . . .

     

I looked around the room. Every set of eyes was staring at me. Those eyes seemed to be boring in deeper than my skin; they were fixed on my soul. Everyone in the room waited . . .

   

As I answered, everyone’s eyes dropped. All of the sudden, nobody could look me in the eye!

  

I felt almost ashamed of myself. How DID I NOT know? What was wrong with me? They all seemed to be looking around the room wondering how the heck I could be married to this man . . .  who died because of this affair . . . and I DIDN’T KNOW?!!!!

   

This group had been sitting here all day listening to the obvious facts about how my husband had been cheating on me, and how he had died. They knew everything that I hadn’t learned before Emmett died. I stared at all their darting eyes, knowing they must have finally learned the truth about me. … I WAS stupid. The facts were as plain as day, and I had missed them when they were right in front of me. I was living them . . . but I was too stupid to figure them out. I could see the thoughts of the members of the Grand Jury, as if they glared out of their eyes as they focused on everything in the room . . . but me. “She should have known . . . and if she’d had any brains, she would have.”

   

I walked out of that courtroom feeling depressed and alone. The findings of the Grand Jury that would come to settle the minds of the prosecutors, only set off more alarms of fear in me. I walked out of that courtroom even more humiliated than before. There was going to be a murder trial . . . and it wouldn’t involve just a small group of random strangers staring at me and wondering how the crap I didn’t know . . . it would be the whole town . . . and eventually, the entire country.

     

That night as I lay in my bed, I replayed all the questions over and over in my mind. How I wished I could change my story. I could pretend I knew about the affair; I could say that Emmett had been at home fighting for me that night before he left. I longed to tell the town that I wasn’t as stupid as I looked. I had known there was something wrong, and I had been trying hard to figure it out . . . but I just hadn’t put all the facts together in time. That night, I drowned in my tears as I considered how to change my past to make myself feel better about it . . . and to reassure myself that I wasn’t dumb.

    

The next morning, I kept having this urge to go downtown again. Ha! That was the last thing I wanted to do. In the days that followed Emmett’s murder, I had placed holds on all of our accounts, but I had yet to go down to the bank to make sure everything was secure. It was just another thing on my “to do” list that I had purposefully avoided in a feeble attempt to pretend that none of what I was going through was real.

   

By late afternoon, I knew I couldn’t fight the urge any longer, and I made the decision to drive down to our bank. I was nervous the whole way there. I didn’t want to talk about financial matters; I didn’t want to see people who knew Emmett at the bank . . . and I certainly didn’t want to go into a public place where more people would find reasons to remind me of how stupid I was.

   

I parked my car outside the bank and walked inside. I asked to speak with the man who had helped me place holds on all of our accounts. The minute we sat down in the privacy of his office, he said, “I was literally going to call you this afternoon. Earlier today, another woman was in here trying to make withdrawals from these accounts. I am so glad you came in today.”

   

My heart dropped. My mind freaked out. I wasn’t safe . . . in any way. Now, not even my bank accounts seemed to provide me any security. My fear of the unknown seemed to be multiplying and invading every dark corner I had forgotten to check.

     

That day, I closed every single account. Maybe that was irrational . . . maybe I was just being stupid like everyone seemed to think I was, but in that moment . . . it was my only option. I had to protect the assets I had left. For me, that meant making some big decisions in literally just a few seconds. I had felt inspired to go to the bank that day, but I hadn’t realized that it was going to result in my finding even more reasons to doubt the world.

When I look back on those dark moments . . . it was like I was living in a haze. I thought I had made it past the hardest days . . . but then, something else would come along to pull me down even more than before. The force that tugged me down was stronger than just a sensation of falling. It felt like a darkness blacker than anything I had felt on earth was trying to suck me in.

    

The scientific definition of gravity is: the powerful force that attracts a body to the earth. During those dark days, it wasn’t just the force of gravity that held me, and it wasn’t just grounding me. No, it was a power that was pulling me down . . . down . . . down.

   

Everything I once thought was a given, seemed so uncertain. I was scared. I was stupid, and I was alone. My bank accounts were not safe . . . and somewhere between teaching my children how to properly grieve and function in their lives . . . we were going to have to live through a murder trial. I was going to have to take that stand again and tell the world all that I didn’t know. All those things I once counted on to be constants in my life . . .  now seemed to be not only undependable . . . but worse than that, they were failing me.

I wasn’t even sure if the natural law of Gravity was going to be a constant for me . . .  because I could not see where on the earth I was still connected to it.

There is a force in this world even stronger than the constant force of gravity. It is a darkness that swirls around us . . . and even when we feel we have been pulled farther down than we knew was possible . . . it tries to wrench us under even further. I was surrounded by darkness on those days, and there was no place inside of me that remembered that God was still there. I did not feel Him by my side as I sat at the bank and was told that I couldn’t even depend upon my bank accounts. I didn’t feel Him give me a voice as my heart pounded out of my chest so forcefully that I couldn’t breathe while I was speaking the truth on that witness stand. The truth was destroying me inside . . . but there was nowhere to hide from it. I felt completely alone and I felt scared to death.

     

The darkness of this world seemed to be chasing me, knowing I was weak, and I was buying every word of it. I didn’t know how to keep ahead of the darkness. Fear was my motivating factor. It drove me to arise in the morning and it kept me from falling asleep at night. I could barely eat, and I had to force myself to move. Every day, I spent hours replaying the questions that were asked as I sat on the witness stand, and I knew that the questions that would be written for me at the actual trial would be even more difficult. They would pull me down with even greater force.

   

Every single day . . . being pulled down . . . thinking; rehearsing; practicing; hallucinating . . . and feeling scared. But most of all feeling Humiliated.

There are many powers that pull at us: Hate, Pride, Fear, Jealousy, Anger, Doubt, Rage, Humiliation, Despair, Pain, Rejection, Doubt, and they are all powers of darkness. Darkness is always waiting to grab us in its clutches; it always knows just how to make its lonely walk . . . and it has the ability to make us long to join it for that walk. It waits for us along all the roads we tread and at all the crossroads where we stand alone. It is not willing to sacrifice for us, but it is willing to sacrifice US for the power it wants to hold over us. Satan is not constant. … He doesn’t stick around when we reach our breaking point. He walks away when he gets us to the spot where we cannot stand, and he hopes we will forget the light we once had. More than anything, he wants us to give up and forget. He willingly takes control when we feel we have lost it. The only thing that is constant when he steers our course . . . is our ultimate defeat. He promises nothing more than his own gain.

   

However, we don’t have to choose to fall under his power . . . for he will only bring us down. We are the ones who hold true strength . . . and darkness can only control us if we give our power away.

       

God’s love for us is the constant we must seek. Its power is the force that can keep us grounded. Even in the moments when we stand and feel that all the truths we once thought were consistent are falling through our grasp . . . He is still there. I didn’t let Him comfort me in that courtroom that day. I let other forces pull me down. I let fear take control of my body in every car I rode in and in every elevator I exited. I sat at that bank feeling alone and overwhelmed by darkness.

     

Gravity is a force that exists no matter what we do. We can try to fight it . . . we can try to pretend that its power cannot control us . . .  but ultimately, no matter how many times we try to leap off that barn’s rooftop . . . we will fall to the ground. No matter how many times we try to fly out of that tree . . . we will hit the grass. It was created for us for that purpose, and our questioning its existence, will in no way change its power. It will always be there.

   

However, our Heavenly Father is just as constant as gravity. He is always there. He walks with us into all the ‘banks’ that threaten our peace and make us feel like our security is about to be destroyed. He helps us close the accounts when we are not safe. He wipes our tears when the humiliation of the world tries to make us feel like we are stupid, and He is holding us up when we feel we cannot take another breath . . . as we speak the truth.

   

I have no idea why I wouldn’t allow myself to see His power in those moments, but I could easily feel the darkness. Looking back, I guess I needed to forget His love momentarily so that I would be driven to remember how to fight for it again. I thought I was walking all alone. The days when, in my mind, I was traveling solo . . . served as anchors to tug at me and remind me to seek His light again.

     

There are powers that pull us to and fro; there are forces that try to bind us. When we seek for the power that comes from the goodness inside of us . . . and from the Love of our Savior, that is when our paths seem to be surrounded by the hope we seek. Darkness will never bring us peace; it will never leave us full of happiness.

   

My hope in myself was lost; my hope in this world seemed to be impossible to find . . . but somehow, it found me. I didn’t seek it on those days full of darkness . . . but it was still there.

     

Gravity will hold you anchored to the earth, but only Christ will keep you grounded as you travel along life’s roads. Let the power of His mercy be the one that anchors your ship when the storms of the sea try to shake you. Let the gravity of His love hold you to the truths that only He can teach. You are smart. You are enough. You are the you He always wanted you to be. You have the power to choose the light.

   

Don’t let your fear of walking alone keep you from taking the next step. You are not alone. He is there. His power is real, and He holds it just for you. Gravity may bring you down, but Christ’s love can lift you higher.

Gravity by Abbey Roll (my little sister)