Victim's Rights

I have got to be honest . . . this interview made me a little sad. Mainly because I wished that everything we talked about could have been aired . . . because this law is about so much more to our state than March 11, 2011. 

This law to be passed is not about my story. It is about everyone. Without my story I wouldn't know what it felt like to be a victim in a courtroom, and I wouldn't have so much passion to why I feel that victims need laws that protect them. I know there are many who have suffered silently wishing that their story was important, or that their pain was relevant. 

So tomorrow I get to take a stand, tell parts of my story that I haven't talked much about. The trial and being a victim of a case. But my goal tomorrow isn't for me to have a voice, it is to stand for a voice for those who have not been heard, or who one day will wish they were. 

Sadly . . . that could be any one of us. 

Tomorrow at 8am during the Senate State Affairs at the Idaho Capital Building I hope that my voice makes a difference . . . not for me, but for others who may some day stand where I have been. 

Last weeks interview about victims rights: 

http://www.ktvb.com/mb/news/local/capitol-watch/marsys-law-legislation-aimed-at-giving-victims-more-rights/419094323

Brave Survivors

Victims don't get back up. Victims spend their life blaming everyone around them for their unhappiness. Victims fall down and wait around for someone else to come and make them feel whole. 

As a victim we never feel strong. We feel weak and broken. 

To survive something we don't let it break us, we fight to stand back up instead of waiting for someone to show us how. We stand tall, not because it is easy, but because we are worth way more than anyone on earth has shown us we are. 

The difference in the stories of survivors and victims is just one thing. Bravery. 

I am brave. I am strong. And I will live my life as a survivor.

Fear with Faith

Tonight after I tucked all the kids in bed Bostyn came running out into the hall. She grabbed on to my hand and pulled me back into the twins' room. She was a little bit shaky and said, “Mom . . . today at school we watched a video about electricity and how if the power lines are down and you get too close to them it can kill you. Bailey and I are sort of freaking out about it and we can’t go to sleep.”

I sat down on their bed and tucked them back into their covers. I wasn’t sure what to say but within seconds these words came to my mind. I said, “Girls . . . I don’t think Heavenly Father gives us knowledge so we can fear. I believe that knowledge is given to us to keep us safe. Heavenly Father wants you to know about the dangers of power lines . . . not so you can be in fear all night—and not so you can be paralyzed in fear when an emergency happens and a power line is down—He wants you to have this knowledge so you can have faith—faith in yourself that if that tragedy were to come up in your life . . . you would know just what to do. I believe that Satan wants us to obtain knowledge so we can fear. He wants you to stay awake all night fearing your new knowledge. He wants you to be so worried that you don’t sleep all night long; then tomorrow you are so tired you don’t enjoy any part of your day . . . and Halloween is no fun at all. He wants you to panic for the rest of your life so much that when one day you come to a fallen power line you are so scared you don’t know how to use your knowledge to keep yourself safe.  I know that this knowledge about the dangers of power lines feels new and unknown—but I think that Heavenly Father sent it to you as a tool to store in the back of your mind for safe keeping. Your new knowledge isn’t to be used right now, because the only use for it right now does not come from God, it is fear. God wants us to use our faith to store that message of safety so one day if we need to bring it out . . . it will be our faith—not our fear—that will help us remember how to keep ourselves safe.”

I have no idea where those words came from inside of me—because I don’t believe they did. The power in my testimony to my daughters tonight about power lines spoke a million words to my own heart. There are so many moments in the past few years that I have taken knowledge and turned it into fear. Even in the little every day information given to me by another person—I have developed a skill to put my fear into motion from the tiniest of “facts”.

Since Emmett’s death especially, I have spent days—sometimes months—thinking that knowledge would bring me faith enough to find the peace I was seeking. Knowledge in itself is a worthy cause, but when that knowledge is coupled with fear . . . the aftermath can be devastating—sometimes just as powerful as the event in which you wanted to obtain more knowledge about in the first place.

The trial for me was that knowledge. I craved the facts; I needed them to live. I never stopped searching for them—and any day that I would take a break from my search . . . the facts would find me. It was as if we were on a hunt for each other—the facts and me—each of us just a step behind one another. Sometimes it was as simple as a nurse in the ER, after getting stitches in Tytus’ finger, pulling me to the side of the building to tell me of some facts she overheard on the night of the murder. Other times it was a random phone call from an unknown caller giving me a tip. Information poured in constantly—but when it didn’t, I searched for it.

Every eye staring my way in the grocery store, was a potential bearer of the truth that I craved; every pretty girl a threat to the marriage I no longer had . . . and worse a trigger of fear in the marriage I was trying to build. I was like a sponge that was drying up, but nothing seemed to make things right inside. No amount of evidence called in by detectives brought me one ounce of the peace I still longed for.

I wanted to know why Rob took a gun.  I wanted to know what was said that night. I craved to see the note that was written to me, that sat on Rob’s front seat as he shot a series of bullets into my husband. I longed to hear the emails. I desired with all my heart to know of the details of the life Emmett was living, while I was rocking his screaming infant in my arms. I wanted to know why Kandi and Emmett were there that night . . . but mainly I wanted to know why I wasn’t enough. I secretly hoped that the trial would be scattered with proof of all the evidence of why Emmett was not choosing me. That way I could piece together in my mind all that I did wrong—so I could change whatever parts of me had not been good enough for him. I hoped that the trial would give me all the parts of my life I did not know—and that knowledge would save me from ever living any of it again.

Each time the trial date was changed, it was like another million pound load was placed upon my shoulders. I waited like a baby bird left alone in his nest. My mouth gapping wide open, thinking of little more than what awaited me. Craving the facts to piece together the broken pieces inside of me.

One day I got a call much different than any I had received. Mediation. Rob had agreed to try to mediate the case. Mediate—like a no fault divorce? You take your truck, I will take ours . . . and we will call it fair . . .? I wanted to throw up, but I agreed. My desire to have the trial over out weighed my need for every nasty detail.

The days leading up to mediation were heavy.  I could not wait to put a face to his mug shot. To me, he was a mystical creature—maybe like a big green hulk—that had come and destroyed my world. I wondered if he even had a heart—maybe he would look like the tin man, who could feel nothing inside.

I hallucinated almost hourly what the mediation would hold. In my mind, I pictured us ending the day in the same room—me screaming and yelling at Rob all of the things I had been through because of his decision. I hoped my words would be given the floor—regardless of anyone’s feelings. I longed to stand in front of the whole room and show them that this “victim” had a voice.

The day of the mediation came. I awoke to an excitement I had never felt before. I was nervous, but even more I was ready to have my voice heard. I had asked my step dad to accompany me to the courthouse. By the time we reached the parking lot I was shaking. The excitement to explode my emotions was like a bomb waiting to go off. My nerves had set in full force. I wasn’t ready to face Rob, but I could not wait.

We were shown our room. Emmett’s parents were both waiting inside with our attorneys. Rob was in a room down the hall. We waited for what seemed like four years before the mediator came to our room. He began to speak. He said something along the lines of, “Well, I appreciate all of you being here today . . . we hope to come to some sort of resolve by the end of the day. I will be going back and forth between the two rooms in hope that we can come to some sort of bargain that we can mediate this case out on. Once I meet with Rob and his attorneys, I will come back in here and discuss with the victims what they are willing to settle with . . . and we will just go back and forth until we reach an agreement.”

My heart dropped. Isn’t this the day when I am no longer just a victim? Isn’t this my time to let it all out . . . and piece together all that was broken by this man?

I couldn’t stop it. I said, “Sir . . . I appreciate you being here and trying to work with all of us. This case . . . is probably just another day on the job for you, but . . . it is a hard one for us. I need you to know something—we . . . we aren’t just victims. I know that your job is to just listen to facts of the case and settle on words . . . but what about us? We are not just victims. I have a picture with me of five of the little “victims” of this case. Is there a time today when you get to see that, or hear about them? They each have names and stories of how this murder affected their lives. So though I am so grateful that you are here to listen to the facts . . . I just . . . I need you to know that this case is not just about facts and victims. It is about people with names, and testimonies of truths that came after the gun. So please, today as you speak with Rob about the hours that lead up to that gun fire . . . please don’t forget us and everything that has happened to us after it—please don’t forget that we are more than just victims in a crime movie . . . we are people and this has been our real life.”

All eyes were on me. Though I didn’t get to tell my stories, it felt good to have a voice. Rob didn’t end up settling on anything that day. I didn’t even get to see his face . . . but for once since he had pulled that trigger I felt like my voice was heard. Maybe not in the way I had anticipated it would be—but that day I showed myself that I did not have to live in fear. I was not a victim. I was a person. Though I still waited silently to find the answers I craved at the trial, I was not afraid of the person who was inside of me.

Fear. It is like an epidemic. Once it settles in us—it is nearly impossible to set it free.

I feared more in those eighteen months—that I waited to break free from the victimhood Rob’s gun had imprisoned me in—than I have in the rest of my entire life combined. Fear robbed me of life. Just like Rob had robbed his victims of the life they once knew, and Emmett of the breath he once took—fear stole my soul from my body every single day.

In one way or another we have all been imprisoned by fear. It drives us to say and do things out of anger. It passively waits silently for us to allow its power to overwhelm our minds. Sometimes in the dark of the night about a truth we have learned—or sometimes in the light of the day about a truth we long to hear.

Just like I testified to my little girls tonight about the power of God, I have whispered to my own heart many times as I was trapped in the plaguing power of fear—He is there. He does not want fear to destroy us. We cannot be exempt from the power of fear, but we can turn it over to God. We can testify to our broken souls that it is through Him we can find faith.

So on those dark nights when fear is caving in—PRAY. Ask Christ to send his grace. Pray for reassurance that the knowledge of this world can strengthen your faith. We will not fear when we are blessed with faith—faith in God; faith in this world; faith in our future . . . and even more—faith in ourselves.

Faith that even when the scores cannot be settled in a day of words; faith that we cannot control the power lines in our lives—but that we can stand tall where ever we are. Faith did not carry me through the mediation day until I realized that I had no need to fear. That moment when I told a room full of people that I wanted to be seen as more than a victim—that was the second I finally did. I saw my strength, for the first time the way God had seen me all along. And I was standing.

Greater Miracles

I woke up one morning in a funk. Nothing in particular had sparked my foul mood, but I could not seem to stomp it out. It was a normal day. The little kids and I played and cleaned the house while the big kids were at school. I tried hard to ignore the dark gloom that seemed to be tugging at me, and I carried on with my normal routine with it constantly hanging over me.

As morning turned into afternoon, I got a call that brought a smile to my face. Rob had had his bail revoked, and was heading back to jail. It was a miracle!!! I was giddy as I went about the rest of my day. Finally, something was going my way, and he was going back to where he had belonged all along. He had killed my husband and he deserved to be back in jail. Just knowing I no longer had the possibility of running into him on the streets brought peace to my soul, but on an even deeper level, I was happy justice was being served.

The alarm on my phone soon sounded to remind me to go pick up the big kids from school. I loaded the little ones in my car and drove to the school. I couldn’t wait to tell the twins about Rob’s new “home.” I knew it would calm some of their fears, as it had mine.

As I drove, I thought back to the nights they had tapped me on my shoulder to ask about “the bad guy.” I thought of the hours spent holding them as they cried in my arms about the father they would never again see, and about their fear of the man who had taken him from them. I thought of their whispers in the silence about a stranger they would never meet and never be able to forgive for the pain he had caused. I thought about all that Rob did to deserve his time in jail. I was happy he was getting locked up again. I was angry for the punishments my children had been forced to endure because of him, and I was grateful that the justice system was sending him back to the life he deserved.  

I pulled up to the school. I could see the twins walking toward our meeting place. I jumped out of the car and with a skip in my step I ran toward them. Once their hands were in mine, I kneeled down to whisper the news. “Girls, so you know how scared you have been since you found out all those months ago that the man who shot Daddy was getting out of jail? Well . . . guess what? Today . . . he . . . he made some choices that got his bail taken away . . . and so, he has to go back to jail!” I was grinning and excited for my babies who had cried through all those nights, worried this man would somehow come into their rooms. I was happy to tell them that the man who had shot and killed their dad was back in jail, locked up. I was proud that I got to deliver this declaration of their safety to them.

They didn’t look up; both of them still stared at the ground and didn’t say a word. Almost in desperation to see their excitement, I announced it again. “Girls . . . doesn’t that make you happy to know that justice is being served . . . that he . . . is . . . in jail?” I tried so hard to get them to make eye contact with me. “I thought this might make you guys happy that the man who killed Daddy is not going to be out of jail anymore. They are putting him back in jail! . . . So . . . he . . . is . . . not . . .out . . . of jail anymore.” Still no response.

A few seconds went by, and finally a sound came from my silent crowd. Bailey burst into tears, and sobbed “But what about HIS kids mom? They still have a chance to have a dad. If he goes back to jail, they don’t get a dad . . . just like us.” I was dumbfounded. This little girl I’d held in the night as she had sworn up and down she would never forgive “the bad guy,” was now in tears for him?

Bostyn finally looked up at me. “Mom, Bailey and I have been talking a lot about this,” she said as a small tear fell from her eyes, “and we . . . we will forgive him now. We just . . .What about his kids? They might need their dad. If we could have Daddy back, we would . . . but they still can. If he goes back to jail, then all of us lost our dads.”

My heart dropped. All the excitement that had gotten me through the day quickly faded. Because of my bitterness and desire for revenge, I had spent my afternoon excited that Rob had been punished for breaking the rules and was getting sent back to jail. I had anticipated that the moment I told my children about it would be healing and uplifting for them, but it wasn’t. Not because they knew him personally, or would benefit from his remaining free . . . but because they had learned to have compassion.

It wasn’t until my two six-year-olds took my hand and taught me about empathy and forgiveness that I realized how wrong my celebration had been. I had spent months building up more hate and bitterness, while my daughters had taken those same months to find love and compassion for a man who had wronged them—a lesson, I had taught them . . . but had forgotten to apply to myself.

What a humbling moment I had that day. I was not the exception to the lessons of truth I had preached. Maybe Rob had hurt me, and maybe his poor choices had gotten him where he was . . . but I had to learn to let it go. Though his actions had shattered my family, it was my hatred that was killing my heart. I had to become like my little daughters: patient, compassionate, humble, and full of love . . . even for the man who had killed their father and made me a widow.  

We are all here on earth together. We are going to wrong each other and cause others to feel pain. Sometimes we will be the one in the wrong, and other times we will be the ones who are wronged. Does that mean we can’t still have compassion for each other? I learned that afternoon that forgiveness is real, not just in words . . . but in our hearts. Empathy is possible, even through our pain.

My twins walked in Rob’s shoes that day, and felt the loss his family was going to have to live with. I wasn’t that strong, but their reminder of empathy was not just enlightening . . . it was humbling. I was the mother—and yet they were my teachers.

What does it mean to walk in others’ shoes? It means actually trying to feel what they feel, and trying to see what they see. It means taking a step outside of ourselves to see another point of view. As adults, we have trained ourselves to think that our way is the best way. We have become stuck in what we can see, and we think that we have the only answers. It usually isn’t easy for us to look at something from a new perspective.

Often, it’s our children who show us what it means to have empathy: empathy for a family member, a friend, a stranger, and even a murderer. They can show us how to see the world while standing in someone else's shoes. 

A lesson I had taught a million times with words became real that day. As I walked hand in hand back to my car with my babies, I felt strength from them to develop that empathy myself.

Forgiveness is real. Being able to achieve it is within our reach. Maybe it isn’t as simple as it was for my two little twins, crying tears for the children of a man who had killed their father . . . but if they can do it—so can we.

Have compassion for those who have hurt you. Find love for those who have let you down. Seek to feel empathy for those who need it the most. God will be the ultimate judge. It is Him who will have the final say. We aren’t required to be the judge for anyone . . . but ourselves.

In the Doctrine and Covenants 64:10, we read this commandment from God:

I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men.

It is a lesson I am still learning, and one that hasn’t come easily for me. To truly forgive, we must have compassion. To have compassion, we must be able to love. And to truly love, we must give God our whole heart. He is the only source of eternal love we will find on this earth. The power He can give us can strengthen all the relationships with which we have been blessed, and can help us develop love for complete strangers, even for those who may have caused us pain.

Jesus Christ has felt your pain. He has counted every tear. He died for you that even you can be forgiven for the wrongs you have committed. Even you can be forgiven for the times when you have been too full of pride, hatred or anger to forgive.

We may never forget our pain. Sometimes the scars run too deep to completely disappear . . . but we can rise above our pain. The atonement of Jesus Christ truly covers all pain. It diminishes the scars; it eases the burdens. It can bring miracles to our lives.

There is a song I have sung many times in my life. I love it for its simple message.

  Greater Miracles by Hilary Weeks

Have you any that are sick? Bring them here, He will heal them.

Have you any that are lame, bent in pain, hurt or yearning?

Bring them all old and young and He will lift them up.

He will make them whole.

And if they put their faith in Him they shall see greater miracles than these.

Have you children who are blind? Bring them here, He will bless them.

He will truly make them see wondrous things when you let them.

Go to Him on bended knee and He will lift them up.

He will make them whole.

And if they put their faith in Him they shall see

Greater miracles than these.

Did you know that He can heal the widow's broken heart?

That His love can change your life, save a world torn apart?

Did you know that He holds the earth and sky at His command?

But when you feel forgiveness come, then you'll understand.

That's the miracle. The greatest miracle.

Do your burdens weigh you down?

Go to Him. He will lift them.

As your brother as your friend, He has love enough for all men.

Trust in Him, take His hand.

And He will lift you up, He will make you whole.

And if you put your faith in Him, you shall see

Greater miracles than these. Greater miracles than these.

The miracle that day was not that Rob was going back to jail. It was that my daughters showed me how to feel empathy. They taught me, by their example, about forgiveness and love. They showed me what true compassion is, and what I could strive to become one day. They reminded me that even the sinners deserve to be set free—maybe not into the world—but from the hatred in our hearts. They showed me that even I, a victim, could find a way to be a survivor.

And that was the miracle . . . the greatest miracle.

Bailey and Bostyn (age 6)

Stand Tall... You are not alone

 In life, we are all constantly at crossroads. Some of these crossroads are life-changing, and others don’t seem to make a difference either way. These moments come to us sometimes many times a day. Which way to choose . . . what choice to make. Do I take back this lipstick that had dropped behind my purse at the store and now I’m loading all my groceries in the car and I am in a hurry and need to leave? Do I wait at the cross walk with the little boy who looks lost . . . even though I’m already running late to take my daughter to her piano lesson? It is a moment for a young high school girl when she has to decide if she will walk past the young boy who just got his binder torn out of his hands and his stuff thrown about the hallway . . . or if she will stop and help him pick it up and be late for her next class. It is the moment when a young man sits in a dressing room contemplating walking out of the store with the T-shirt he just put on under his clothes . . . or if he takes it off and saves his money to buy it when he can afford it. A young pregnant mother sits at a crossroad at the abortion clinic. . . contemplating whether or not she keeps this unborn child or walks out of there today as if nothing ever happened. Crossroads are always in our lives. They are sometimes small . . . and other times very large and heavy. They come to young and old, poor and rich, happy and depressed. We cannot always control when or how they come. The only part we have control over, is the outcome. The outcome of any crossroad can be very dark . . . or it can bring so much joy for generations to come. We will not always know the ripple effect that our decisions can have on others around us, but sometimes, our decisions will change another person’s life forever.

My name is Ashlee. I am a victim of murder. Through a series of events and by two shots of a gun, I was made a widow at the age of 28, with my youngest child just six weeks old. I am a victim of infidelity. I have felt unlovable. I have felt rejected. I have had days in my life when I wasn’t sure if I would ever take a breath again, let alone be able to raise my five children by myself. I have lived in fear. I have felt much heartache. I have felt truly broken to my core. I have carried some heavy burdens . . . not only of my own, but burdens put upon my shoulders by the death of my husband. I have felt alone. I have felt humiliated. I have been humbled to my knees. I have searched my soul to find my worth in this world, and in the life that was left for me. My world has been totally shattered. I have faced realities I never knew were possible, and found strength within myself to keep up the fight and live every day as if it was on purpose. I have been carried by Angels . . . both earthly beings and those unseen. I have found that being a “victim” doesn’t mean we have an excuse to stop living. Being a victim means finding a reason for seeking a higher road. I have picked up the pieces left and carried on. I am a mother. I am a survivor.

In one way or another, we are all victims. There are times in our lives when we are forced to question who we are at our core. When we are presented with a path . . . we can go this way or we can choose that way. For some, this moment comes when the one person whom we love the most decides we are not enough. This person leaves us—at a most vulnerable moment—alone to search within ourselves for who we really are. We are left trying to find who it is that was left behind. Sometimes the person we love dies. Sometimes it is merely an internal battle we are facing . . . all alone inside our minds. Whatever the situation and wherever you have been . . . you have been hurt. You have felt alone. You have been abandoned, either by your parents, your lover, your friends, complete strangers, or even yourself. We have all been at that crossroad where all we have left is ourselves.

Sometimes these moments of lows have brought you to your knees and caused you to reflect and ponder your relationship with God . . . and other times they have made you question if He is even there, or if He knows you are alone. Whatever that moment has been for you, it is personal and real. It has defined and refined who you are, who you think you were, and who you want to become.

This is my story . . . the defining moments that have truly brought me to my knees, the times when I’ve questioned to my core my very existence, and the experiences I’ve had that have shown me who I really am and who my Heavenly Father still needs me to become. The night of my husband’s death was my darkest hour, but also the very moment when I saw firsthand that my Heavenly Father sent Angels on errands for me. He carried me. It was the hour when all my fears and all the pain of this world collided together and He was there . . . putting back together all the pieces, one step at a time.