Best Ribs Ever

Been thinking I wanted to start sharing fun things on the blog in between my regular posts. My kids spent the night throwing down things like "best ribs ever", so I have to share this recipe I made up this morning.


Best Ribs EVER
Take your favorite style of ribs (I used pork short ribs, two huge slabs) and take out of the packaging. Take two huge pieces of aluminum foil and lay them criss cross making a large T. Fold the sides into a cup shape to make a bowl shape.  So the tin foil looks like a huge bowl shape to lay the ribs inside without leaking. Put naked ribs inside.

Pour over or set on top
1/2 cup of Coconut oil
1 cup of orange juice
4 T. sesame oil
4 T. liquid aminos (it is like soy sauce)
1 T. of your favorite seasoning (I used Tajin)
2 or 3 sweet banana wax peppers

Cover top with the tinfoil sides that were cupped up until there are no gaps. Sealing the liquid inside. So the entire meat is locked inside of tinfoil.

Put on cookie sheet in the oven or cook in a turkey roaster. Cook between 250-300 for 6-9 hours.
The longer the more tender they will be. We like ours to slide off the bones.

Open up and serve hot. They fall off the bone! We loved eating them with Sweet baby Rays BBQ sauce and a loaded baked potato and salad. So yummy.

Just FYI. This is not a paid post . . . just had to share because they were amazing. Here are some links below if you have any trouble finding the ingredients or are like me and just don't like to run to the store if you don't have to. Click on the picture.

Buried Deep

One morning Tytus woke me up really early. I grabbed him out of his bed and began to feed him in my chair. His big blue eyes stared up into mine. I loved rocking him and enjoying every smile he gave me out the side of his mouth.

Within minutes, his smiles ran out, and he was fast asleep in my arms. I didn’t want to move. He looked so peaceful, and I loved every second of watching him sleep. It didn’t happen very often. For a while, I just stared at his perfect little face. He was an angel, that was for sure, but I don’t think that even at the moment, I could fully comprehend what a great blessing he was for my life.

After some time, I began to look around my empty bedroom. Not much had changed within its walls. The bedspread was still the same as when Emmett was there. I had moved the furniture around a bit, but that was nothing new for me. Almost everything in that room, at that very minute, felt completely the same. It felt as if at any second, Emmett would come walking into the room to tell me about his day. I could almost smell his body wash steaming out from the shower. If I closed my eyes and ignored the pain in my heart, I could step back in time before he died and pretend I was there. Maybe it had all been a dream!

The clock read five a.m. I knew that time well. Emmett always woke up that early to leave for the gym. On many mornings, I would get up with him to make him some eggs before he headed out the door. I never thought twice about how early it was. I was excited to get up and show him how much I cared. I would sit on the counter and watch him scarf down every bite.

Eggs. I craved to lay Tytus down and go out into the empty kitchen to make Emmett some eggs. I wanted to show him one last time that I didn’t even look at it as a sacrifice. I wanted nothing more than to be there for him, no matter what time the clock said.

It had been months since I had been wakened by the sound of his voice, asking me for a quick pre-workout snack. I could almost hear his deep voice, “Hey babe, do you mind making me some eggs before I go?” It hurt how badly I wished he would wrap his arms around me, and whisper that in my ear. 

I snapped out of my daydream as the clock turned to 5:10. It was still hours away from the moment when tiny feet would come running into my room, but I couldn’t sleep. Somewhere buried deep inside of me, a pain was raging. It was so heavy that I could almost see it in my empty bedroom. There was no sign of any change, but deep inside my soul, a storm was brewing. In that moment, the room might have looked the same, but I knew everything was different.

My bitterness chimed in with a stark reminder of all the pain Emmett’s obsession with his body had brought me. The gym. Every morning, I had dragged my exhausted body out of bed so he would have the energy to go prance around half-naked with a bunch of other people! Regret for every egg I had ever cooked him simmered deep inside me. All of the positive memories of waking up to make him breakfast turned black. Why had I been there at his beck and call? Why had I put everything into him, when he had not returned the favor for me?

A deep-rooted anger seemed to be pulling me further and further into despair. By the time morning came, the house was all abuzz with excitement because the twins were graduating from kindergarten that morning. Their joy was apparent, but my heart still felt black.

I showed up at the school just in time to find a seat. Kindergarten graduation, though very exciting for the twins, was just one more thing for me to do alone. The anger and bitterness that had churned inside of me all morning about the eggs seemed to be bubbling up into my throat. I felt like everyone was watching me, just waiting for the pain to explode out of me. The eyes in the room felt heavy as I slid past a few parents to an empty seat.

The twins looked beautiful. Their eyes were fixed on me. They sang a song called Big Dreams. It started out, “Big, big dreams, lots of big dreams, things I want to be someday . . .” I choked up as I tried hard to keep my feelings buried inside. Dreams. Big dreams. My twins were standing up on a big set of risers singing at the top of their lungs about all the dreams they had for themselves someday. Tears streamed down my face as I pictured the semblance of the normal life I had once enjoyed being wiped away, like my tears, never to be experienced again. Once more, I tried hard to push my fears and emotions back inside of me.

By the end of the performance, I was ready to run out of the room. I didn’t want to talk to any of the teachers, or parents . . . or children for that matter. I wanted to run away, and hope that no one had caught a glimpse of the tears that had forced their way out of me. I had to be strong, I had to bury the pain, I couldn’t let anyone see how truly broken I was.

The mother of one of my daughter’s friends came over to say hello. She asked how I was doing—a question for which I had no answer. That particular question had been asked so many times that I actually stressed out about how to answer it every single time it was asked. I assumed she wanted me to answer honestly. Maybe she had been reading my thoughts, and wanted me to tell her about the eggs I was fretting about all morning? Maybe she wanted me to break down and cry, and remind her of all the legal hell I was climbing through? I almost saw her as a threat—an enemy who wanted me to unveil the unbearable pain I had been masking all day.

Instead of answering her, I started making jokes about Kandi and Emmett. I didn’t look her in the eye, just rattled off joke after joke about all the crap Emmett had pulled, and all the horrible thoughts I still carried around about Kandi. My friend stood there silently as I made fun of every possible angle of the story, and rattled off all of the degrading and inappropriate slang terms I could think of to describe Emmett and Kandi’s decisions.

She gave me a little side hug and said, “Hang in there friend.” Then she walked away. HA! She hadn’t won. She hadn’t seen my pain. I had fooled her for sure. She had no idea of the secrets I was concealing, right? If all eyes were off of me, that meant no one could see my pain. But even if they couldn’t see it, it was there, and there was no way I could let it go because it had become a part of me . . . and I almost needed it to survive.

That pain, the pain I thought would go away as I directed my friend’s thoughts off of me and onto Kandi and Emmett . . . it didn’t leave. It didn’t even feel better; it actually felt completely worse. My plan seemed to work for a few seconds. I didn’t have to share any of the things I was struggling with, I didn’t have to open up about my breakdown over eggs that morning . . . but the words I did use spoke more about my insecurities than a detailed description of them would have. I didn’t have to describe my pain because it came straight out of me in the form of hate!

That moment of hate would not be my last. In fact, it became my companion. Anytime I didn’t want to look someone in the eye—for fear they would rat out my buried anguish—I would make them laugh by telling jokes. I would make light of the horrific story I had learned to call my life. I would mock and tease and try hard to get any ear to hear about how “well” I was doing. I truly believed they thought my humor was a sign that I was doing “better,” that I had overcome my grief.

They could laugh with me, but I never let them cry with me. No, that was something I continued to do alone in my closet or while driving in the car.

One of Emmett’s friends came over that night to help Teage with some soccer moves. He ended up staying until way past the children’s bedtime. When the kids were all in bed, we found ourselves watching TV. He sure was a cute guy. He had never been married, and the thought crossed my mind that maybe he was there for more than to just help Teage. I kind of enjoyed having a man in the house again, and sitting on the couch talking with him reminded me of having Emmett. They had a lot in common, and I could see why they had been friends.

He had come over a few times to play with Teage since Emmett had died, but he’d never before stayed until the kids were tucked in bed. I had only met him a few times before Emmett’s funeral, but I remember having seen him at the viewing. He had been very emotional, and I remembered feeling so badly for all the single guys who had looked up to Emmett so much. It was as if they had all looked to Emmett as an example of the men they wanted to become and the lives they longed to have. Now they were all in the difficult situation of trying to figure out where he had gone wrong, so they could make certain they didn’t follow the same path.

I figured he was at my house to find more answers about why Emmett had failed, so he could know where to look for a new hero. We talked for a few hours about “Emmett stuff,” and after some time, he grabbed my hand. My heart began to race. All the emotions and fears that had been bottled up all day began to try to find their way out. What if he could feel them through my hand? . . . What was I doing letting a man hold my hand in Emmett’s house? I was panicking inside . . . and every feeling I had buried deep down was trying to make its way through my hand and into his.

I was afraid that by getting that close to me, he would be able to know how broken I was. He held my hand the rest of night, but I never relaxed. He probably felt like he was holding onto a zombie’s cold, unattached lifeless fingers. I shared no emotion through my touch. I didn’t want to tell him to let go, but I held onto the fear that was trying to let him in. I wasn’t about to share it with anyone. It was mine, and there was no way a cute smile was going to talk me into allowing it to leave.

I never let him come over again. He called and texted a few times after that, but there was no way I was going to let myself be vulnerable again and risk exposing all of the broken pieces I held inside, by having him too close.  I had buried those feelings, and nobody was going to be able to crack me open to let them free. I wasn’t ready to have a man hold my hand; I hadn’t let go of the hand for which I still longed. But even worse, although I wished Emmett were there to hold me . . . I hated him at the same time. That was one toxic relationship I would have to overcome before I let anyone hold my hand ever again.

Feelings buried inside feel safe. When we are the ones suppressing them, we truly believe that no one can see them. Our fear of them being revealed keeps us from letting anyone in. The moment others’ love and concern for us causes us to believe that they are after our buried treasure . . . we want to run. 

There is no freedom from our pain when we are running from it. It doesn’t get left behind when it is hidden inside of us. 

So many of us have been hurt. We long to find peace, and yet we refuse to let go of our hurt. We bottle it up as if it were a prized possession. There is no good in storing our pain, there is no place for it to reside inside our heart. Its power is darkness, and its message is deceiving. Somehow, it causes us to believe that we need it to survive. It creates a bond inside us that causes us to feel that it must stay there. 

The darkness of the world has left many of us stuck. We have buried its secrets within us, and we are afraid to let them free. 

Abuse, neglect, and anger have allowed others to define who we are. We have all fallen victim to the cruel and evil secrets of our past, and the pain that has followed has settled in comfortably inside our hearts. 

But, we don’t have to keep it in! Just like a buried treasure in the sand, we can find the riches of digging it up and letting it free. If you have scars from your past holding you down . . . let them go. If someone in your past has wronged you . . . let them know. If you have a secret eating you alive . . . today is your day to set it free. 

You are not alone. Every one of us has something buried deep inside. A secret from our past . . . or a deception causing pain. Satan will try to get us to believe that its home is permanent; that its power to hold us back will never leave. 

I can testify that Christ knows the truth about our pain. He knows of the fears that eat us up inside. He has heard every prayer and seen every tear we cry. Even if those tears have been shed alone in our closets . . . He has counted every single one of them. 

When you are alone looking in the mirror, do you hate yourself? Do you purposefully draw attention away from yourself and onto others? Do you spend your days trying to point to everyone else so you can continue to hide?

Pretending my pain didn’t exist . . . didn’t take it away. It didn’t even hide it, because my screams about Kandi and Emmett’s imperfections did nothing more than display my own. What fears are you trying to conceal by putting others’ shortcomings on display?

I spent years making jokes about the people who had wronged me. Anytime I saw my raw emotions coming to the surface, I would cover their tracks with slams. Even in meetings with attorneys and detectives, it was easier to mock Emmett’s and Kandi’s mistakes . . . than to let them see the pain that had built a colony right in my heart.

Laughter isn’t always about what is funny. Sometimes we laugh because it helps us not to cry. Fear and pain can be suppressed for a long time . . . but they always find a subtle way out . . . or eventually explode through our screams. The pain I had buried deep inside of me raged its way out through hurtful words about the tragic events of my past, and mocking jokes about those who had wronged me.

The emotions that drive our actions are larger than they seem. They are powerful, they are blatant, and they are self-destructive. Spend less time putting others down, and more time letting out the real emotions you have buried deep inside of you.

Our bodies were not made to be storehouses for pain. Our bodies were built to be the receptacles of beauty and light. When we hold in our pain . . . it hurts. It doesn’t feel at home, because it was never meant to reside inside of us.

This mortal journey we are on is more than just a road full of painful bumps, it is a rollercoaster of excruciating exhaustion and fear. It is a river of whitewater rapids that can toss us back and forth. We were each sent to earth with a body. That body is a gift to serve as a vessel for our spirit as it navigates the bumps and feels the pains of mortality. Our end goal is not merely to see how much pain we can store inside and take back to heaven with us, but to see how much of the pain we can overcome . . . how many of the mountains we can cross without harboring the pain all the rocks create under our feet. We have to learn to let go if we want to return back to God. Those pains that are still a part of us when we die will not be left here with our mortal bodies. If we haven’t let them go, our spirits will hold onto them. That is why this earthly life is the time for us to learn to live and let go.

Each one of us has been given our own roadmap, but our final destination . . . our end goal. . . is the same for all of us. When we left the Spirit World, we knew that the things we would endure were to help us return to live with God. He sent His Son to die for us to make that possible, but he also commanded us to forgive all men . . . and not harbor the pain inside of us.

When life feels like it is trying to bury its darkness deep inside your soul, fight for the light of Christ to carry it away. When others are sent to hold your hand, let them do their part in helping you release your pain. When memories of the past cloud your ability to live today . . . pray for the power of God’s love to lighten your load. I know that Christ is the one being who has walked this earth, who has seen firsthand exactly how each day has felt for me.

When those around you are singing about the “Big Dreams” of the future, let it be a reminder that the sorrows in your heart can be transformed into peace. It is good to hold onto your dreams, even when the dream you are living feels dark. There are brighter days ahead. Don’t give up on the big dreams and the little memories about eggs . . . for when we stand at the gates of Heaven, searching for the acknowledgment of the one true God who gave us life . . . remember that we will be judged on the days we are living now. 

Heavenly Father doesn’t care if you are a bread maker or the owner of the entire bread company. What He longs to see for us, His children, is that our road of life was lived to its fullest. He longs to hear the stories of when we overcame the darkness that tried to bury itself in our smiles. God desires to see us sacrifice, and love, and work hard to fulfill the mission He sent us here to perform. 

Whatever mission He has sent us on . . . we cannot see its purpose when we are busy hiding from it. I have found that in the moments when I have let it all go, it is then that He has been able to speak to my heart. 

If your heart is clouded with the secrets and pain of the past, and you can no longer feel or hear Christ’s tender whispers, now is your time to unclog your connection. He isn’t the one preventing Himself from coming to heal us, we are the ones preventing Him from coming.

When you feel like you’ve buried yourself deep in the sorrow of your past . . . you are the only one who can allow that sorrow to be set free, but He can carry it away. He stands waiting for you to ask for help. Deep inside of you, under that pain, are all the answers you are seeking. Clear the view and you might see the perfection waiting for its voice to be heard. You are more than the pain others have left in your heart. What is buried even further down, deeper than the pain . . . is you. 

Good Things to Come

Weak

I remember walking into a grocery store for the first time by myself after Emmett's death.  I felt like I was in a dark cloud; I was filled with anxiety. I couldn't understand why my body seemed to lock up when it came to the day-to-day tasks. Things that seemed so simple, just months before, now were almost impossible for me to do. I started out on the cereal aisle, hoping that my love for that food group would help ease my apprehensions about grocery shopping.
   
 The moment I went to reach for my favorite box of cereal, my heart stopped. The box fell out of my hands and onto the floor.  I looked around, luckily I was alone on the aisle. I fell down to the ground and began to sob. What the heck was wrong with me? I felt weak, like thinking about preparing food was a sedative for my soul.  It didn't make sense. I had always loved planning meals and cooking for my family.
   
Once I finally picked myself off the floor, and caught my breath, I stumbled my way out of the front doors of the store and got back into my car. It was too much. I had no idea why, but something about shopping for food and preparing for my families' meals was too much for my heart to take.
   
Another day as I anticipated making a meal, I felt the same uneasy feeling. I walked into my pantry and glared at the boxes of food. They looked like mountains, and I had no idea where to begin to climb.  I became very overwhelmed and tears started to swell in my eyes.  I walked into the pantry and slammed the door behind me.  The light automatically turned off when the door was shut, so now it was just me alone in the dark.
   
Again, I fell to the ground, but this time in the darkness. I said a silent prayer, "Heavenly Father . . . why can't I do this? Why am I so scared of cooking, and cleaning? The thought of preparing a meal sends me into a full-on anxiety attack. I want to be a good mom; I want to be able to do the things I have always done.  I am SCARED!  I am broken.  Why is this such a struggle for me? Will it ever go away? When am I going to be normal again?"
     
I closed my eyes, even though it was dark, and the tears continued to fall. I had no idea where I was going to go to get help with an illness that seemed to be plaguing my mind.

   
In a brainspotting therapy session, a few weeks later, everything began to make more sense.  During my session LJ asked me to close my eyes and through a series of techniques he employed, the path to my fear became very clear.
   
My mind took me back to the night Emmett died. I had spent hours that day trying to make everything just perfect; I had put all the energy I had left into making his favorite food. In my mind’s eye, I saw him walking in the door. He didn’t even look at his dinner. He never took one bite; he never said how grateful he was for my sacrifices in the kitchen that day. I pictured every pot I stirred, and every crumb I put into serving bowls. I could see his face as he sat there with his arms folded and his cell phone in his hand. I could almost hear the phone ring and I watched him go answer it in our bedroom. I saw the look in his eye as he told me he was going to Walgreens. I could hear the words that the detectives spoke.  Dead. Affair. Alone. Kandi. Rob. Gun. It was like I was living the whole night again.
   
As my tears burned my cheeks, I began to understand why I had developed a fear of cooking for my family: cooking had become a trigger of the emotions that had consumed me that day . . . and a purposed catalyst, in my head, for the chaos that followed.  It began to make sense. The thought of preparing food was overwhelming because somewhere inside me it was directly linked to the tragedy that followed.

Cooking was a battle that I felt I would never win; it was a reminder of every pain that had become a part of me. I hadn't lost my desire to feed my family because I didn't love them anymore, but I couldn't bare the pain, or face the heartbreak my mind told me might follow.

I longed to step back in time to the days when our favorite meals had brought us so much joy. All food, in some way, reminded me of a memory. I can remember we spent an entire day during the law school years—before Kaleeya was born—making Kalua Pork for our entire ward party.  Emmett had the whole thing down to a science. We had many ovens going all day long. I did exactly what he told me to, and by the end of the party the whole barn-full of people were fed and happy.
 
Every night of our marriage Emmett would laugh at me as I crunched down a bowl of cereal before bed. It was an on-going ritual that was a constant in my routine. I couldn't go to sleep without a full belly. He always joked that I was like a newborn baby with my need for constant snacks and midnight meals.
   
Every New Years we always made prime rib; it was delicious, juicy, and perfect every time. Anyone who ever took a bite, could taste the passion for its flavor that Emmett craved. He sold his favorite foods to any ear that would listen; everyone within the sound of his voice would be talked into eating it. He could have sold a red popsicle to a lady in a wedding dress. If he liked it, he wanted to share its perfection with everyone he knew. He would talk about my cooking to strangers . . . like it was a masterpiece. There was a time in our marriage when he bragged to co-workers about his lunches, and took them my goodies to enjoy. He wrote down my recipes for people at the grocery store; and begged me to make his favorites for Christmas presents.  His excitement for the creations that came out of my kitchen gave me a silent drive to keep inventing.
   
We had so many memories that were centered around our favorite foods, and all of the sudden these positive meals and yummy snacks were blaring in my face the fact that Emmett would never enjoy them with me again, but also that these foods—which had once meant so much to our marriage—had failed me. 

 Most of the time as I drove to the grocery store, or sat in my pantry, I longed to get the memories back. The fear of the pain that would follow stopped me in my tracks every time I went to turn on a stove burner or open the fridge. I didn't want the reminder that he was gone, and I certainly didn't want to open the floodgates for my fears to come true again. Somewhere inside my head, cooking food and creating my concoctions, would ultimately lead me back to the hurt that still baked inside of me.

One day, after I had just about lost my mind with my anxieties about cooking, I went to see my bishop, the ecclesiastical leader of my church. I told him about my troubles and the strain they were having on me as a mother. He sat quietly and listened to me sob; I could tell he was baffled as to how to help my broken despair. Finally he looked at me and said, "I want you to read a scripture tonight. It is Ether 12:27. Read it as often as you need to.  I think it will be a great reminder for you on the days when you feel so weak."

   
He wrote down the reference and then offered to give me a blessing. When the blessing was over I headed home. That night, after my kids were in bed, I read its words over and over:


     27 And if men come unto me I will show unto them their^aweakness. I ^bgive unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my ^cgrace is sufficient for all men that ^dhumble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make ^eweak things become strong unto them.

 I hadn't spent any time on the thought that this weakness could one day be made strong.  I thought maybe I had given it all I had, and my chance to overcome it had passed. I had not realized that this weakness, which seemed to consume me daily, could one day become my strength.

 On our first date, Emmett and I spent a lot of our evening talking about our pasts. He told me about his mission, and all that he had learned while he was in Brazil. I could tell he had been an amazing missionary; he had worked his butt off for the people with whom he came in contact with. I loved hearing stories about the people; I enjoyed hearing about the special spirits he had baptized.  One thing I will never forget from that night was when he told me about the day his mission was over. He had a long release meeting with his mission president talking about all the accomplishments of his two years. He said the final counsel his president gave him was that he should spend his life living the standards he had learned. He reminded him that Satan would work hard on him and try to minimize the importance of fighting for the light every day. Emmett's mission president asked him to work hard to continue on the mission he had begun there in Brazil, and to never remove the spiritual armor he had worn those last two years.
 
That counsel, in my young twenty year old mind, was exactly what I wanted my future husband to be doing: fighting every day, alongside me, to win the battles that seemed to make us weak.
   
Emmett's mission president is right. We cannot think that because we sacrificed, for a time, that all the hard parts have come to an end. Just because you work hard for years to become an amazing missionary, doesn't mean that the rest of your life will come easily, or even naturally.  The mission might have taught you much and helped you learn about sacrifice . . . but it was just the first step to the faith that you will have to fight for every day.

Life is full of moments we think we have reached the height of our mountains, and the glide downhill is all we have left to steer.

When I was finally coming close to delivering Tytus I knew exactly how my birthing experience would go.  I would fight nurses all day to let me do everything naturally.  They would beg me to get an epidural, after hours of no progression, and I would finally give in.  My body always seemed to be the same; the desires inside my head to have a natural birth would always make way for the fact that I wouldn't dilate past a "3" and would need an epidural to continue on.
   
Walking into my birthing room that day I decided I would put aside my bull-headedness and just let them know up front that I would have to get an epidural.  I asked them to let me buy a little time by administering some pain meds in my IV.  They did so, and the next thing I remember was waking up with an urge to push.  The IV meds had knocked me out; I had been sleeping for a long time.  I looked over to Emmett, who was sitting next to me, and said, "Babe, I think it is time. Did they give me an epirdural yet?"
   
They had not; but within minutes I found myself surrounded by medical staff and I was pushing our baby into the world.  My intense desire to have a natural childbirth had finally come, but not as a fight . . .  as a surprise! After three other labors ending in a forced epidural, I was excited to have the chance to get my wish.  I looked over at Emmett.  He looked a little nervous, which scared me. For all the other births he had been the cool cucumber who calmed my doubts. The look in his eyes made me begin to doubt my ability to handle the pain. I kept looking to him for reassurance that I could do this.   He tried hard to engage, but I could see in his eyes that his mind was somewhere else. I tried hard to ignore his glances to his phone; I purposefully looked away when I felt like I should ask him where his heart was. The man who usually seemed so proud and present, looked like he was a hundred miles away.
   
When the pushing got intense, I began to question why anyone in their right mind would do this without the drugs that had been forced on me all those times before.  I was in so much pain, it was like a hot piece of metal was trying to make its way out of me. I tried hard to focus on my breathing and ignore the pain. I am not sure which was worse: the pain of giving birth, or the pain that the man standing by my side was nowhere to be found.
   
As the baby's head and shoulders came all the way out, the doctor handed ME his arms and let me pull him the rest of the way toward me. Emmett had always been the one to do that in the past; he never missed an opportunity to be the one to deliver the baby, so I had never been the first to hold one of our babies. It was amazing to grab onto my little infant and pull him onto my lap.

I didn't realize then how symbolic this experience would become for me. Emmett didn't hold Tytus as he took his first breath, and he wouldn't get to see many more of the breaths our baby boy would take. Tytus was a light for me. He was my breath of life in many ways. That moment I held him on my chest and watched him take his first breathe will forever be imprinted in my mind. He needed me in every way; without me he wouldn't have a life, and yet . . . he was the one that, just six weeks later, would become the reminder for me to breath and keep living.

     
That night, that moment of pure pain, felt like an unimaginable hurdle that seemed too high to jump. I had never experienced the excruciating pain of childbirth as I did that day. It felt like one of the weakest and yet strongest moments of my life. I doubted my ability to persevere and continue on. Then when I held that little boy in my arms, I knew without a doubt that all the pain I had endured was worth the fight.

My mission to bring Tytus into the world was just the first step of many hard things I would be asked to do as his mother.  It would have been easy to think that all the pain and hardships of being a parent had passed. I had, after all, endured excruciating pain for him. It was hard, and it took great sacrifice to go through for him, but my selflessness was not over. It was not the pinnacle of the pain I would overcome as a parent, but just an initiation for becoming his mom.

We will have rights of passages: becoming a spouse, becoming a parent, becoming a professional, serving a two-year mission. But those things are just that . . . the first steps to a long journey of hard work. Tytus’ birth was not the end of the pain it would take to be his mom, but it was the obstacle I overcame to prove to God I would do whatever it takes to be the best mom I could be for him, no matter how hard it hurt.
    

 Our relationships, our lives, our moments . . . they have been hard. They have brought us to our knees. In one way or another, we are all weak, we are alone, and we are afraid. We try to overcome the death of our loved ones; we struggle to deal with rejection from someone who no longer loves us. We fight to see where our paths of pain will lead us. We try to understand why our weaknesses seem to hold us down.
     

 For those of you who have served a mission for your church, or had a calling or an assignment at work that put you through years of strain . . . your mission, your assignment, was not the end of the work you must do. The hard times when you struggled to do your best—no matter who you were doing them for—are not over. Your mission to fight for the next journey has not come to an end . . . and neither was my mission of doing hard things as the mother of this household. I had to work every single day to put my life in His hands and become the tool I was capable of being. Tytus’ birth, when I didn't get the epidural, was damn hard . . . but the work and pain I was asked to bear wasn't over when he was out and my body’s pains were done. That was just the first step of my journey as his parent.


Life is not over when we stand at our crossroads. It has only begun. Before the Emmett died, I truly thought the hardest days in my life had come. They had not. Make every day a little more meaningful than the last. Read a little more faithfully, be a little more patient. Laugh. Smile. Hug. And live the life you always wanted by fighting the things that will tear you down. The hard parts aren't over, but each battle you win, is a hurdle you jump as you show God the gracefulness at which you fall down at His feet. Keep up the good fight. It isn't over until it's over, and until then . . . may God be with you, and always inspire you to keep your armor on. We win battles against evil by fighting them every day. Keep on the armor of God. Never let go of the shield that blocks out the world. Even when your arm gets tired . . . keep holding it up. Even if you feel your days to hold your armor up seem like they have passed. Don't take it off, for anyone or for anything. Today might have been hard, but today still needs you to fight, love and learn for tomorrow.

     

We are weak. As humans, we have learned that there have been many before us who have been willing to fall for anything. Complete nations have fallen for power; kingdoms have been overturned because of selfishness. Many have fallen fighting, and others have fallen because of their weaknesses. When one falls, another is born and takes his place. Some see it as the circle of life, that we all have to be born, and we all have to die. It is true that we will all pass on, and someday death will end at our last breath . . . but we don't have to fall. You have had times of strength, and you have been burdened with times of weakness. Let those weaknesses be a reminder of the strength for which you are still fighting. They will try to hold you down, but use them to lift you higher.
      

You may feel overwhelmed, that this weakness will never end; that it will always rob you of the carefree days that you crave. There is a way out of the tired soul that is pulling at your ankles and wrapping its dreary burdens on your shoulders. Christ died to help you make the weak things that torment you, one day become the strengths that carry you.
      

He gave me this weakness of fearing my kitchen as an opportunity for me to turn to Him and make it one of my strengths again. 
      

The events that shaped the days of my past had created memories that held me hostage from living my future. Just like the pain of childbirth tried to get me to doubt my abilities as a mother for my son, my past tried to sprout doubts for my future.
      

We are not just as good as our pasts; we have the strength to overcome them. The years may have left a hole in your heart . . . but the future can bring the strength that will repair it.

"I give unto men weakness that they may see my good works and glorify their Father who is in Heaven."

Glorify Him. Humbly ask of Him to see His good works; they are all around you. Look for the light that is there, even in your darkest days. As you see Him, and ask with a sincere heart, and with real intent, He will show you where your weaknesses can become your strengths. I testify that this promise made to us by our loving Father in Heaven is real. I have seen it in my own life. I have fasted and I have prayed that my weaknesses and my fears would be calmed. I have been given strength inside of myself to overcome the trials I have been presented, and when my own was not enough . . . I have felt his strength pulling me over the hurdle that tried to knock me on my back.
 
 Sometimes my strength has come in the form of humility, in getting professional help for my struggles. Other times, it has merely been an “aha moment” on my knees in my closet.

 Humility and aha moments come in many forms. Even in parenting, what is inspiration for one mom is different from the next. Some moms get to show their love for their babies raising them all their lives. Other moms have died trying to prove their love through childbirth. Then there is a group of woman who get to show the love for their babies by letting them go. Not one of these ways of love is weak; raising a baby takes strength . . . but so does letting one go. Coming to terms with the fact that you cannot be the parent that baby deserves, can be a life-changing selfless act that a mother does out of love. Selflessness is not weak; selflessness is a strength.

Weakness is selfishness; weakness is breaking others to make yourself feel better. But sometimes our weaknesses are out of our control. Some might read of my fight in the grocery store and in my pantry as a weak, selfish act that I could have snapped out of easily. I can, with every cell of my body, tell you . . . my weakness had all the power in those moments. I had no idea of how to snap out of the state of panic I was in.
     

Next time you stand in line at the pool for the high diving board, and the little teenage girl in front of you has almost dropped to her knees in panic . . . try to remember that there may be more to her fear than just a selfish desire to piss you off. Maybe her anxiety to take that leap runs deeper than any pain you have ever encountered in your life. Somewhere inside her little mind, that leap may mean a remembrance of a hurt that buried itself inside of her long ago . . . which hasn't been set free.

We all walk around with smiles, but a lot of the time, inside we are weak. We want to know that we are safe, and sometimes we don't even know what that looks like. When you feel like your weakness is eating you alive, turn to the one source who knows exactly how you feel. Maybe the people in line behind you—as you cry for help on that high dive—have no idea what pain your screams hold . . . but Christ does. He hears the hidden messages in every fear you face and in every moment that has found you paralyzed in your pain.

 Remember the counsel of Emmett's mission president. It is not over. Your time to fight Satan will never end. Keep on the armor that protects you and never let him find your achilles heel. He waits patiently for those weaknesses to win, so he can step in and rip you to shreds.

 I know that if Emmett had a voice today he would testify to anyone within the sound of his words—just like he did all those times about his favorite foods—"Fight the darkness. Live the life and be the person you want to die as. Your chance to search for light is right now, your time to see the goodness you have . . . is lying in front of you. Please take it. Don't wait for tomorrow to let go of the weakness that will make you fall for anything. Turn to Christ for strength when Satan finds your vice. He will use it to destroy you. You do not have to be weak. You do not have to fall. Fall to your knees and let a power greater than darkness make you strong."
 
Turn to him when you are the weak thing that needs strength; He will make YOU strong.