Dateline

I have received so many emails since they aired another version of our story on Dateline NBC a few months back, asking where to find the link. So here it is for everyone who was looking for it. I added it to the media tab on the blog as well. Hope everyone is having a great Friday.

DEADLY DESIRE

Click

I had programed my mind. I knew I would have to attend the murder trial in a forced, locked down, zombie mode. I prayed that I could put myself into autopilot—I hoped I could hear and see . . . but not feel the facts of the story that had broken me.  I knew I had to be that fly on the wall—the one with no emotion or passion shown—just an everyday citizen learning about a crime.

The scary thing about allowing yourself to slip into autopilot . . . it is not easy to find your way out—and other times a single moment of weakness can lead you to snapping out of it in uncontrollable ways.

Our bodies were not made to work properly in autopilot—it is a fight or flight mechanism that was never meant to be permanent. Autopilot—or as I have called it, zombie mode—is something our bodies do to keep us safe. We can see what is around us, we can hear—but in this type of mindset . . . we cannot feel.

I had lived in autopilot many months—unintentionally—but during the trial I had to put myself back in it . . . on purpose. I knew I could not feel, even if I wanted to—but sometimes I would begin to feel regardless of how hard I tried to fight it. The hardest part of all was when I would go home for the night . . . and I couldn’t snap out—I could hear my family . . . I could see their sweet faces—but I could not feel anything.

It was October 2012 and the murder trial was about to begin.

The morning came—it was still dark outside when I pulled myself out of bed. My eyes burned from the tears I had cried the night before. My heart was heavy knowing I was going to be leaving the kids all day—but I knew my mom had come to pick up my slack. I was in turmoil as I tried to accept the reality that today was the day—I was anything but prepared.

I stared at myself in the mirror. My pep talk was less than loving. Ashlee . . . you have to stop. This is not about how it felt for YOU. You have to suck it up, get over yourself and put on your game face. Stop crying. Stop feeling. There is nothing that will be said that is going to change anything. Once this is over—and Dateline wraps it up—it will be done. You will be able to put together all the pieces—then come home and start living for real. You cannot feel . . . you cannot wish . . . all you can do is listen. The past is in the past . . . but today— it is here again. It isn’t real this time . . . just a recap of all that is was. Game face. Stop crying. Do NOT feel. Autopilot time. Do not feel. Everything is going to be fine . . . ? . . . you are going to have to be numb. See, hear . . . but do NOT feel.

I knew this day was going to be strange. I had a new life—I had learned to love, but a broken past I still longed to heal. My nerves were getting the better of me, but I tried to smile despite my inevitable butterflies. I was hopeful with the reassurance I had received during jury selection. I knew this time in court would be hard—but I felt peace that my healing would come . . . regardless of the verdict.

My friend Brittany volunteered to drive me down so I wouldn’t have to walk in alone. It was nice having a friend to talk to on the drive—to the beginning of what would come to be the longest month of my life.

By the time we reached the courthouse I was so flustered I was shaking. I was nervous to see Rob again—but this time my thoughts were consumed more on the fact I was going to have to face Kandi—I didn’t feel prepared. I wasn’t ready to embrace the pain her decisions had caused me. I didn’t want to look into her eyes and search her soul for her pain. I didn’t want to let go of the anger I had towards her—because in my mind—she didn’t deserve it.

I walked into the courtroom; my eyes darted in all directions. I scanned the room to make sure I hadn’t missed any hidden corners—if she was there I didn’t want any surprises like I had been given the first time seeing Rob—she was nowhere to be seen.

I took my seat on the victim side along with Emmett’s parents. His mom and I had not had many conversations since he died. We had both taken some time to piece together our own realities. Emmett’s dad had only come for me—with no personal desire to be there—he came to be my support.  It was nice to have them both on the bench with me—a gentle reassurance that I would not face these truths alone.

As we sat silently staring into the empty room, I couldn’t help but look at the bench just across the walkway from us—the ones who had come to support the other side. I could see what looked to be Rob’s parents and sister. I could almost feel the butterflies that must have been dancing around inside each of them.  My eyes stared—fixed on them, almost in bewilderment. How could they come to support a murderer? Could they not see the obvious ending to this trial? What hope was inside them that brought them here—did they think he was going to be able to walk out with them at the end of the day? How could any parent watch something like this? Maybe they are in denial about their son? . . .

My judgmental thoughts were happy to take the place of my insecurities—my mind did all it could to keep me from feeling my own emotions. It was easier to sit and wonder about other’s personal struggles—then to be surrounded by my own.  

Soon Rob was escorted into the room. He was in chains, but this time he was wearing a suit—not a prisoner jump suit—a business suit. I guess it made sense he would want to look presentable—but it was weird for me to see him dressed like one of the attorneys. Who is he pretending to be? . . . Does he really think a suit will let anyone see past the gun he held in his hand? . . .

I swallowed hard—trying yet again to slow down my self-righteous mind. I guess inside, since I knew I was not allowed to feel my own pain—I had created an unspoken rule that everyone else’s pain was fair game.

The minute Rob took his seat, and the judge began to speak, my numb mind began to slip out of autopilot.  I had to control it. I pinched my arm. Ashlee . . . this isn’t real. You are only here as an outside on-looker. Remember nothing you see here today is going to hurt you anymore. You have to be brave. You cannot feel. You can see—but you will NOT feel. These are just going to be facts . . . pieces to your puzzle. See them, collect them . . . but do NOT feel them.

I tried with every fiber of my being to buy my own BS. My heart was pounding as the jury walked in and took their seats. I tried not to make eye contact with any of them—one catch of my stare, and my secret pain would be revealed.

Tears began to form—I fought the urge to wipe them, for fear someone would see. I choked back my emotions and my throat closed off. I began to think I had made a mistake. PANIC—I felt claustrophobic. I can’t do it. I can’t sit here like this doesn’t affect me. I can’t pretend everything is ok. It took everything in my power to not scream and run out of the room.

My eyes darted around again searching for something to stare at. Rob . . . jury . . . judge . . . Emmett’s family . . . Rob’s family. Nothing in that room was a safe place to rest my weary eyes. Every bench held a reminder of why I was there—a reason for my heart to feel.

I wished so badly I had Shawn sitting by my side—a neutral safe haven to turn to for strength. I wished I could grab his hand and try to calm my beating heart. My mind darted back and forth—in and out of the past and present—trying to wrap around it what was real. I wanted to press pause for a minute on the past and step back into my present life.  I wanted to go home and be surrounded by things I was allowed to feel.

Have you seen the movie CLICK? Don’t you wish sometimes you could press a fast forward button through life's really hard trials?  Everything would move quickly and you wouldn’t be able to feel any of the pain?

The murder trial was just like that for me—only my autopilot wasn’t at a fast forwarding speed . . . it was all in slow motion—oh and I could feel the pain . . . only I had to pretend I could not.

I went in that day with the knowledge I could not let the information affect me—at least I couldn’t show it if it did. I knew I had to sit back and be a silent observer—an everyday citizen with no emotion to what was being said. The only problem was—I wasn’t an average citizen who had come to hear about the violence that happened in my city—I was a wife to a man who had been gunned down in a parking lot. Every word spoken affected my children and me—every fact displayed . . . had changed our lives. I drove there each morning already in autopilot—knowing I was willingly walking into an emotional torture chamber.

There are many forms of brutal torture. No one should ever be physically or emotionally abused; no one should ever have to watch a loved one die. I have heard stories about torture camps decades ago, and read many books about lives affected by that kind of torment. But I hadn’t endured any form of torture in my life—I knew nothing about a pain purposefully inflicted upon me. The torture I learned about for the month of October 2012—was a different kind of torture.

This torture was a slow motion detailed description of not only the horrible choices my husband was making, but the details of how two bullets sunk into his heart and skull. Slow motion details of text messages, and emails; slow motion pictures of the crime scene that will be sketched into my mind forever. Slow motion details of the activities of three people that night—leading up to 10:00. Slow motion details of how Rob circled around inside of Walgreens looking for him. Slow motion details of how Rob moved his truck out of the views of the camera. Slow motion details of how he waited in that truck for seven minutes for Emmett and Kandi to return . . . with a letter written to me on his front seat. Slow motion details of how Emmett and Kandi pulled up together inside his truck. Slow motion details of each of them getting out of their cars, and gathering out of the view of the camera. Three people—all going in slow motion. Slow motion details of every possible witness that came and went. Slow motion details of the angle the bullets entered him. Slow motion details of how and where the blood splattered all over his truck and the ground. Slow motion details of Emmett taking his last breathe. Slow motion details of every person within the sound of the gun—witnesses trying to remember if they heard a bang bang . . . bang, or a bang . . . bang bang. Slow motion details of every emergency person who walked onto the scene, and every detective that investigated that night—every angle and every fact that played into the murder. Three people standing at three different crossroads . . . all coming together in one big bang—a slow motion explosion of bad choices and broken hearts . . . ending a life. Click. 

Slow motion details of how two shots of gun—changed our lives forever. A slow motion torture I could not talk myself into walking away from.

I spent a month with a lump in my throat— and a new kind of pain in my heart. I don’t remember taking a breath in those days I spent in that courtroom. My eyes burned and my hands shook as I soaked in the pieces to the broken puzzle from our story . . . day after day after day—every one with a new topic—a different expert explaining what they had spent nineteen months researching and analyzing.

Just like the day I spent in jury selection—with my eyes fixed on Rob—I studied people’s souls. I watched each movement the attorneys made. I stared into the eyes of every witness—barely able to look away. I studied Rob, and the interactions he had with his crew of defense. I eyed each witness as they would come and go. I watched as Kandi pranced onto the stage and held her hand to the square. I watched Rob’s family hear the same facts I did—day after day after day.

I sometimes wondered if anyone else had pushed the same button I had—the one where you were put into some sort of trance resembling no emotion—but you were really dying inside.

Each day brought different knowledge—a new challenge in forgiveness of the three people whose crossroads collided that night. Every day was like someone had pushed the reset button on my remote—like the hope I had received in the past vanished into thin air.I always pictured my road to forgive as an uphill climb. I thought for sure that each step I took would be supported by the next step.

That month I learned that hope and empathy are very fluid. The more I listened about the bad decisions made that night, the more anger I felt towards all of them. The more anger I felt towards the three of them—the more I fought the urge to hate myself and question my worth. Every word spoken about the affair pierced me like a knife—a blatant attack on my worthiness of being enough as a wife. Every fact proven about the gun, reopened the wounds it had caused in my own heart. Every word Kandi said on that stand—beckoned me to hate.

Every ounce of self worth I had tried to find for a year and half was lost as I lived it all again.  The battle of hope and despair became a cycle I ran over and over and over each day. The search for empathy for each of their circumstances—many days— seized from my heart as I tried to force myself to not feel my own pain. I learned a lot about the power of the mind as I purposefully pretended to be in autopilot and not feel—but felt every word—and the more I didn’t allow myself to feel  . . . the less empathy I saw for them.

A trial I knew would not change anything from the past became an emotional internal battle of darkness and light. The temptation to hate had never been stronger. The battle to conceal my pain was overwhelming . . . and the hours my body went home to try to sleep—my mind did not follow. The trance took over my body—autopilot became me. Shawn and I didn’t talk much that month, some days hardly at all. I saw many meals brought in, I received many hugs—but that month, I did not feel the love that was all around me.

The learning experiences and opportunities for growth in our lives are not going to be concrete—they will be fluid. For every step we take into the light, there may be nine steps backwards trying to take us back into the darkness. Each day we will go in a different direction. Some days we will jump forward, others we will fall back.

Forgiveness, hope, charity, and empathy—all virtues we are trying to perfect—will flow in this same manner. Perfect mastering of any virtue will not come in this life. They will constantly be at battle with the opposition. Our hearts may be full with empathy and love for a foe one day—and the next day we may remember the pain they have caused. Some days we may fail in our battle to perfect our virtues—but we can start again the next. I learned a lot about this cycle of virtuous autopilot . . . the dance of despair and defeat being replaced with feelings of peace and hope.

I began to see that for me, forgiveness and hope were not an uphill climb—but a mountainous obstacle. And some days I did not win. Some moments I hit valleys; others I saw stars. Some moments I could see myself—and others all I could see was defeat.

We each hold inside of us a power of self—who we perceive ourselves to be. During, and even before the trial, I allowed just about anyone to determine my vision of my self.  I did not know I could be the keeper of this power.

Some days—when I learned different facts about the case—I willingly handed over my sense of self to the perpetrator of the crime. When they spoke about the affair—I didn’t just listen to the facts—I internalized them and focused on what I did wrong. I shifted my power of self over to Emmett or Kandi. (Because they did this—I must be this.) When I learned a fact about Rob’s actions, I internalized his decisions and shifted my power of self over to him.

I allowed the facts to bring me to many of my own crossroads—where I stood waiting for their approval . . . that I was enough.

I listened every day for one of them to change the story—I secretly waited to hear the part when I was enough for any of them. I longed to hear Kandi say she was sorry, or for Rob to stand up and cry for the pain he had caused me. I yearned to have Emmett walk in and tell me this didn’t all happen because I was not enough for him.

But guess what?—nobody did.

The battle to hate had little to do with anyone in that room, or with Emmett. The difference between a good day, and a bad day in court had little to do with the facts that were displayed . . . and everything to do with the power of self I could see.

When the facts were presented I had two opportunities—two different outcomes. One was to hold my power in my mind and allow myself to feel the effect of that decision—but not allow my power to be given to that person. The other opportunity, I often times allowed, when a fact was presented—I gave away the power of my sense of self, and imaginarily handed it to the person who caused the pain.

And that is what made the difference between a dark day, and a light one. The information was not different—but the way I allowed it to affect me was drastically not the same. Maybe Kandi was a slut, Emmett was a jack ass . . . and Rob was a freaking idiot—but their actions were not mine to own. They would have to own their roles in the story—not me. Their bad decisions could only break me . . . if I gave them my power. Regardless of who I was, or wasn’t, those three had made their own choices—and the days I could remember that . . . I stood tall.

The click of that gun was powerful. These horrible decisions, made by three people, were impactful in my life—they had changed the course of the journey I thought I would live . . . but they didn’t break me. The only way I could be broken was if I chose to let the world destroy me—if I gave away my power to anyone but myself.  

The world is going to try to break us—trials are never going to end. Even when the murder trial was over, its power has never ceased to try to destroy who I viewed myself to be. Truth is—the world is never going to want us to see ourselves, because the minute we do—we hold in our mind the power to be everything we were created to be.

It is not the trials in life that define who we will become—it is our reactions to them. The days I walked into that courtroom in darkness and despair—I felt it run through me. I saw and heard with a broken heart. I hated and I despised. I was numb to anything uplifting me, and I was on an emotional journey of heartache. But those days I walked into that courtroom willing to hear, see, and not feel the pain—but feel the spirit—those were the days I was given the miracles I needed to remember who I was. I was not a broken widow who was going to be plowed out of her own life. I was a strong daughter of God who was being given a new way to view myself—regardless of what others saw in me . . . or failed to see. 

The past has been cracked, the pain has been deep . . . but I am not broken. Because of Him . . . even I . . . the widow to a man who was gun downed in a Walgreens parking lot for stepping out on the promises he had made to me—to protect me, and adore me, and hold true to our marriage—even I could have a life filled with dreams. Even I could find more reasons to smile, and see myself for who I really am.

Life is going to be a roller coaster of dark days and light days. But I can promise you this: if we pray for the ability to see ourselves as God sees us—even the moments when we feel broken and weak—let me rephrase that . . . especially in the moments when we feel broken and weak—we will be blessed with a different view. We will be given the ability to see our own strength and the gifts we have been given. We will be able to view ourselves as an eternal being, and not just a temporary body. We will be able to find our ability to one day be made whole from anything in our past that has shaken us.

Somedays autopilot may take the reins so you can stay safe—but don’t give anyone else your power. See, hear . . . but only FEEL the truth. Sometimes truths are hard to feel. Sometimes facing the truths that cracked you—breaks you all over again, but it is truth that puts together the broken puzzle pieces of the past, and that sets you free from the dark roads you have walked. And it is truth that brings you to the knowledge that you are enough.

Don’t let others destroy you. Be you. Find strength in your story—even the parts that want to take your power away and leave you with nothing left. Even if the jury of life is sitting in front of you . . . staring—and you are wondering if there is anything left for them to see—God still sees it all. He feels the silent tears you are crying inside. He hears the gentle whispers your heart is pleading. Maybe you feel alone from where you are standing—but He is not far away. In those moments that darkness has surrounded you, and you wonder if everyone has forgotten who you are—pray that you can remember, even if no one else does.

Sometimes the greatest miracle of all is—waiting around for someone to see your worth . . . but finding it for yourself instead.

God is not dead. He lives. He is waiting for each one of us to remember Him, to find hope not only in our stories, but in His creations. He sent His Son to die for us—that we could one day live again. So we could make it through the trials and the days our bodies go into autopilot. He knew it would be hard. He knew there would be no remote to click fast forward through the darkness and the pain—so He allowed His perfect Son to die to atone for the world.

Grace—it is the power that is inside each one of us. Because of Him  . . . the trials we spend pretending we do not feel the pain—will strengthen the view we have of ourselves. The power that lies in each one of us is greater than anyone else can see. It is a hope that only we can find; in the stories only we can live.

Believe in Him. Believe in his plan—and never stop believing in the one person he gave you to be your greatest cheerleader . . . YOU. No one else has been where you have been—the pilot of your destiny is you. Truth is—you are His greatest creation of all. And when you can see that . . . you will know He is not very far away.

Absolutely Not

It seems— just about when you have things figured out in life, something new comes up to change it all. I have always taken pride in my creations—including the ones that were only in my mind. I like to have a plan and I look forward to crossing things off of as I go. Like I have said before—I remember exactly where I was the moment I had my life written out. Things have always felt comfortable when life was going according to my design. A younger version of me used to believe that happiness was defined by the fulfillment of checking things off the list I had created for my plan.

I write lists—on paper and in my head—of exactly how events will go.  Just like I mapped out my ideal life story with a beginning, middle and end . . . even in the trials I have faced, I have envisioned an “end” for each one. For me the murder trial was going to be that “end”. I couldn’t wait to check it off my list as the final chapter of the unclosed book from my past. 

As life will do . . . my plan was changed. 

It was a phone call. I answered. The man on the other line spoke. He said, “Ashlee . . . this is Shane Bishop from Dateline NBC. We have been calling a few people who are involved in the Rob Hall murder trial coming up. Keith Morrison is going to be doing the interviews, and regardless of who participates, we are planning on doing an episode on our show about everything . . . you all went through . . . and we were really wondering if you would be willing to let us interview you . . . about your part of the story . . . tell about how this affected you and your children—we think your role would really be powerful in telling this tragedy.”

My heart was pounding—and just like during most other phone calls about the past—I could feel my anxiety levels rising. However, I didn’t even have to think much. I had heard they were calling around, and I knew just what my opinions were going to be and what I was willing to do. I said, “You know . . . I appreciate the fact that you are trying to put some light on this whole story, but I am not really ok with it . . . I don’t want anything to do with it. I would actually really appreciate it if you could just leave it alone and let us all be. I haven’t even decided if I am going to be able to live through the trial . . . let alone tell the whole world how it all felt for me. Thank you for calling and giving me a heads up about what to “look forward” to, but I will not be participating in any of it.”

He was very understanding and let me know that if I did change my mind he was just a phone call away. Ha . . . like that would ever happen. I huffed and puffed about that phone call for days. I talked to Shawn; I called church leaders, and my parents, asking them for advise about what they thought I should do. Everyone shared the same opinions I did—ABSOULUTELY NOT!

So that was my decision. There was no way I was going to participate in telling the emotions I felt in the story of Emmett’s death. I couldn’t put my kids through that . . . plus, I was the mom who had called news stations yelling at them for putting our pictures on TV in the days that followed the murder. I had shut down Facebook for months, to not allow anyone in— and hide all my pain. Why on earth would I open myself up to the country about how deep it still ran? Why would I be vulnerable in telling a humiliating story about how I wasn’t enough for my husband—and he got shot in a parking lot for being with another man’s wife? And Shawn . . . we had enough on our plates. The last thing we needed was for me to open up the wounds of the past and talk about a life we did not share.

So I did it again—I went into hiding. I shut down my Facebook account. I zipped up my lips and made a vow to myself that my “story” was not going anywhere. I even began talking about skipping the trial all together. I decided denial was a much safer haven than reality . . . so that is where I stayed.

Shawn came home one day and told me he wanted to take me and the kids to Disneyland. It felt strange planning a trip to get away in the middle of everything—but I couldn’t wait to go. We left Kaleeya and Tytus home with my sister Abbey and her husband Alex. We got on a plane one Sunday morning and didn’t come home for five days. 

Denial of anything real life oriented was easy there. We had a blast. I felt like my mind was clear and it was natural to forget the mediation that took place a few weeks before—that had been a bust . . . or the up coming trial. In denial, I didn’t picture life as the limbo state I had been living in. Yes, in the back of my mind the big hurdles were always looming—but they seemed very small from where I was standing. Disneyland was good to me—the happiest place on earth I could have been.

The sad thing about Disneyland— and the mystical false reality that you can live in when you are there— is . . . it all disappears when you fly back home. Dateline was still going to create a show about our past; the trial was going to come, and I was going to have to take the stand. Yes, it may be postponed a few more times—but eventually it was going to find me . . . and I could feel its power pulling me the minute the plane hit the ground.

This wasn’t my life. What was I doing here? How did life come to this? The dense fog that surrounded me on that runway was stronger than any I had ever seen. The world came crashing in and the darkness of it poured into my veins—I was scared I could not take any more.

Shawn went back to work; the kids went back to school—and I sunk deeper and deeper into despair. The trial was now only weeks away, and there had been no mention of another postponement. Now, the date I had anticipated and craved to come . . . began to be the same one I started to hope would never come at all. I secretly wished they would put it off again—to buy me some more time. Time for what? . . . I did not know. Possibly time to snap out of the bleak false reality that I buried myself in; time to figure out what was real. Time to talk myself out of denial, and remember how to stop living like my past was really just a bad dream. 

I was scared to have it over, for fear I still wouldn't remember who I was after all. If the trial came and went, and I was still broken . . . what then? It was a bipolar dance of a desperate need for the trial to come, but a frantic fear that it would not change anything inside of me. I wasn’t sure what way was up. All the strength I felt I had built—to get on that stand and pour my heart out to the man who had pulled the trigger—began to fade.

Days became even more dark as I struggled to find my strength . . . and then one day it came—like many times before—in a dream.

I was sitting at a table covered in photographs. Pictures from my past—from childhood up to that present day—pictures of my life with Emmett, and others of Shawn and me. I just sat there staring at them—feeling the emotion of each and every one.  They all had a memory. As I picked up the picture of the kids and me at Emmett’s funeral, I looked up—and there, sitting across the table . . . was Emmett. I stared at him in shock. He said, “Ash . . . one thing is for sure, you never stopped smiling. You always found the good. No matter where you have been in your life . . . you have seen through the darkness—a gift not many of us know . . . and you have smiled.”

I looked around the table. I stared at each snapshot of my life . . . and he was right—I could see one thing in common in every scene—I was smiling. Even in the picture at Emmett’s funeral . . . I had my babies in my arms—and though my mouth felt forced at the time—I was smiling. I could see as I held the picture of that day in my hand all the things I had to be thankful for—all five of them. Maybe that day I felt there was no reason to be smiling—but I had done it anyways. I looked down at the photo of our family on our recent wedding day—two more reasons to smile.

Emmett began to speak again. He said, “I can’t change the past for you Ash . . . but you can change the future. Take our story and tell everyone exactly where I went wrong. I can’t change the life I lived, but they still have the chance to change theirs. You are the only voice who can tell that story now—So do it! Don’t be scared. You have smiled through a lot harder things than this. Tell them the story that no one else can. Tell them to put their family first. . . before it is too late. The truth about our past will save someone—maybe even more than one. You didn’t ask for this, but you have smiled anyway. Don’t hide. Stop pretending it didn’t happen. Be brave, and be bold. The one you are supposed to save will hear you. You don’t have to do this for yourself—because I know you don’t want to—but I need you to do it for me—and everyone else who is right where I was. Your words won’t change our past . . . but they can change the future.”

I woke up with a smile on my face. I called Shane back and committed to the interview. I didn’t want to do it. It went against everything I felt to be true—but I knew that my dream was much more than that—there was a greater plan than mine. The story of Emmett’s murder was not complete without the family he left behind. The details of how he died were insignificant if he was just a cold dead body. The person Emmett knew he had to save wasn’t going to be changed by hearing about a few shots of a gun—they were going to be moved by a story of a family man who stood at a crossroads . . . and chose the wrong choice. Emmett knew it, and I knew it. Our story didn’t have to be in vain. Our past—full of bad choices and broken hearts—might make a difference for someone. So I committed to do it . . . for that one.

Dateline was going to ask about how it felt for me . . . and I was going to tell them. Not because it would be easy, but because I had a promise that my words would make a difference—our hell . . . our story could change an ending for someone else. So with all the pain I had been hiding for so long, I made a promise to not hide it any more.

The interviews could not take place until after Rob was sentenced. So now, with just weeks until the trial would begin—I had a new goal to set in my mind for when all of this would be “over”. The trial was not going to be the end I thought it would be—but another step to a new “end” of the past. In my mind, Dateline became the final chapter to this heart break I had carried. Once it was over . . . our real life would begin.  

My plan had been changed, but I was smiling.

Sometimes we have a plan—and sometimes a greater plan has us. One thing is for sure—I didn’t always smile for the plan that was created for me . . . but I have always seen a reason to smile despite it.

The plan I created was going to be easy. . . but the greater plan that has been written . . . has created me.

I always saw myself as an artist—sculpting and creating beauty. As a mother I have felt my creations were close to perfect; as a painter and photographer I have always had a vision in my mind . . . but as a daughter of God—I have become the work of art.

It is in those humbling moments that you realize you don’t have all the answers—on those early mornings when you wake up to understand your stubborn view was wrong; or those dark nights when you are humbled to see your vision of life, was only one version of the course to your end goal—that you find your relationship with God. Those moments when your humility brings you past the pride of hanging on to your own ideals—and give your life back to the one who gave it to you in the first place . . . that is when you are sculpted a little more. Hopefully to someday become His perfect masterpiece.

I didn’t choose this greater plan—it chose me. So many times I have doubted my worthiness of the missions I have been asked to go on, but I have seen great blessings on those days when I didn’t ask why.

Sometimes we walk brightly in faith—a gentle tiptoe, holding our hands out to feel what is in front of us—and other days He asks us to take a blind leap in the dark . . . with no time to see what is in front of us.

Those leaps, take greater faith than any of the tiny tiptoes that preceded them . . . but it is in those leaps—that we learn to fly. “Absolutely not”—two words I have learned to use sparingly. It seems everytime I have uttered them in my life, it has turned into a learning experience—one where I had to make way to a greater plan. 

It is usually in those moments— when we think we have all the answers and have life all figured out—that God gives us a chance to grow in His way.

Our faith doesn’t grow . . . until it is stretched. So warm up kids—because we came here to grow. God is there. He absolutely does not forget us. He hears our fears, and He knows our pain . . . but He also sees the gifts we cannot see. He knows when our ‘absolutely not’s can become the very thing that sets us free.

So to everyone who has felt alone on a mission they did not choose—it is going to be scary. It is going to be dark; some days you are going to wonder which way is up. It is going to be hard. It is going to be lonely and long; there will be moments when you feel you should just give up. You will feel small—you will see yourself as insignificant and meaningless. Your pain will sometimes feel that it is all in vain. You will grieve over the lost path you thought you would take.

There will be days when you want to stand on the top of a skyscraper and tell the world of all the hurt in your heart; then there will be days—even years—when you want to crawl into a cave and keep it all hidden safe inside forever. Some days you may even ask why. So when those questions come . . . those deep dark questions that penetrate your very soul—Has anyone ever been where I have been? Am I alone? Are my cries just echoing inside of me?—Absoulutly not. You are not alone. Your fears are real, your pain is heavy . . . but YOU are not lifting them alone. Maybe life is giving you more than you feel you can bear—but He has absolutely not left you alone to carry it yourself.

Like my little ones at Disneyland for the very first time—we may feel like we are the first to experience some of life's rides. It may seem like we are the pioneers to having faith in something we cannot see. It feels overwhelming when our boats take us on our first ride into a dark cave, but just like the log ride at Disneyland—eventually our boat will see the sun. Maybe sometimes just in fractions of a second at a time—but little by little it will be there. So look for the light. When your journey brings you out of the tunnels—and back into the sunshine . . . smile for that little flicker of warmth that is still lighting your path.

Find a reason to grin, despite the roller coasters you are riding. Sometimes you will be disappointed. Sometimes you will wish there was more; other times you will be pushed to adventure onto a ride you would have never chosen for yourself. In all of the rides you take . . . there is something to be learned and experience to be gained, but we cannot do it alone. We have to turn to something more powerful than ourselves. We have to find a hero to give us strength.

We don't have to be our own super hero. Life wasn't meant for us to save ourselves. There are many in the world pretending to have all the answers to all of our tough questions—but truth is . . . there is only one who can truly save us. Because of Him we can smile no matter where we are. Because of Him we can find peace when the super heroes of the world let us down. (No offense Frozone . . . you were awesome.)

There are not many things in this world that are concrete—even our super(est) of super heros—but Christ will never let us down. We can never forget that He will absolutely not leave us alone. He has been down the waterfalls you are about to encounter; He has ridden in all the dark caves. He has seen every rapid. He is there; He is real—and He knows right where you stand. Make sure you are taking a stand to the right causes. Don’t let your list of things you will “absolutely not” do, stop you from fulfilling the mission He has written—to sculpt you into the perfect masterpiece He envisioned you to become. Take that leap. Be bold, be brave . . . and never forget—YOU are absolutely not alone.

(I haven't yet written about the experience of my interview with Dateline, but here is the link to their episode about the Rob Hall murder: 

Dateline NBC: Deadly Desire)