Patterns in our soles

This week Kaleeya, Tytus and I were at the pool. The big kids were at school. We were having fun playing in the water and enjoying some one on one time. The pool was empty for a while until another little family showed up. The parents had two young girls and an uncle and grandma with them.  Their kids and mine started to talk to each other. The family was visiting from another state and the girls were six and four. The dad and uncle were in the water with the kids, while the mom and grandma stayed in the shade.  Kaleeya and Tytus got out a few toys to share and they began to play some games together.

Soon Tytus was getting cold and wanted me to come sit on the lounge chairs with him. I left Kaleeya in the shallow end to play with the two sisters. I watched from my chair with Tytus snuggled up close to me.

At one point Kaleeya came over and whispered into my ear, “That dad is very kind.” Then she headed back to into the water. For a second I almost took her comment personal—as if she had just told me that I was not nice. So I became intent with my watching to try to figure out what made him so great.

As I watched, I began to see what made this dad so kind. He was a doormat! His daughters were very bossy and ungrateful for everything he did. He was hopping around like a circus clown trying to make them happy. He was bending over backwards and doing anything they demanded and everything they wanted. “Kind” was an understatement for the patience this man had with his very demanding and degrading daughters.

I could tell Kaleeya was getting sick of being told what to do, and was not impressed with the bossy duo.  Soon she found her way onto my lap. Not long after she sat down, Tytus decided he would take his turn in the ringer—he headed over to play with the girls. I knew he could hold his own, but I started to get a little nervous for him to go into the game of ingratitude that was taking over the pool. This time Kaleeya and I watched from our seat.

I noticed that every time one of the girls would began to get upset, the mom or the grandma would yell something at the dad, saying things like, “Just let her do it!”, “She is talking to you!”, “Listen to her!” As if the dad had no voice, he would just do exactly what the four year old, his mother in law, or his wife was getting mad at him for.

My mind raced back to all the lessons in college psychology classes and books I have read—learning about patterns in a family’s background. I started to overanalyze this young family and the example the grandma and mom had obviously been to these young girls. They had taught them to nitpick and never be grateful for all of the things this father was obviously trying so hard to do for them. It was like the more he tried to show his love—the worse he was treated. I had the diagnosis all mapped out in my mind of all the things they were doing wrong in this scenario. I wanted to sit them down and share my knowledge on how to help their family break the patterns they had passed down from generation to generation, and show them why they needed to change.

Soon the youngest sister was throwing a fit and yelling at Tytus, her uncle, and her dad. She was telling them that they were not passing the ball in the direction that she wanted it passed in their game. The dad and uncle began to apologize to the little four year old, and threw the ball around the circle in the other direction. Soon the ball came to Tytus. He tilted his head to the side, glanced at the four year old, looked over in the opposite direction and threw the ball as hard as he could in the direction she had demanded it could not go.

At first I was proud of my little guy for standing his own with this snotty little ungrateful girl—she had a pattern in her family that obviously needed to be changed. He was showing her exactly what she needed to see. She didn’t rule the world! Not everyone was going to roll over and allow her to be the queen! Somebody was going to have to show her how to break the patterns her mom and grandma had passed down. 

And then it hit me like a ton of bricks—Tytus’ response was learned from the patterns of the bull headed stubburness that were potent in my own family.

My thoughts turned from this imperfect group of people—to my own imperfect crew. I began to think of the many patterns that had streamed through the generations, past and present, and the role that these patterns had played in our own lives.

I sat on that lounge chair with Kaleeya on my lap thinking back over the patterns of my past. Some of my strengths were the qualities that pulled me through some very hard times, but other times those same strengths have been my weaknesses.

I pictured my strong internal drive to have everything pulled together. I have to admit I am a bit of a control freak—but I am not alone in this intense behavior. I come from a long line of control freaks. We like to make sure we know exactly what is going on with each of the eggs in our baskets. We like things to be done the way we like them. We have an opinion about the little things others are doing, and have a tendency to think our way is the easy one.  We like to see ourselves as pretty with it, and on top of things.

So obviously we also have a bad case of denial as well—because when you like to have control over everything—you usually don’t feel like you have control over anything.

One problem with thinking you are the glue that holds everything together—when your world crumbles . . . you will spend a lot of time trying to figure out what it was that you did wrong. It is hard to give up the power, even when things happen out of your control.

I remember at those beginning stages of my marriage to Shawn being plagued with this strength and  weakness of wanting power. I truly believed that if Shawn’s attention wasn’t fully on me, or the things that I thought he should be focusing on—he didn’t love me.  If he didn’t do the thing I suggested he do, he didn’t value me as a person. If he didn't ask my opinion . . . then he didn't care about me as a partner. If he was spending his Saturday washing all of our cars, when I had the expectation that we all went to the park—he must not love me enough to know what I wanted. I felt that he should value my opinion—because in my mind, my ideas were the best. He should read my mind, because if he loved me . . . I wouldn't have to ask. If he cared enough about me, he would just know what he was supposed to do. And since I was so good at pretending that I had it all put together, he should value my very wise opinion. 

Then Shawn had this pattern of believing that if he didn’t give Jordyn his unconditional, undivided attention when she was at our house—she wouldn’t know that she was loved.

At this point in our marriage, we were still far from realizing this pattern of “chase” we would play, and we were too overwhelmed with all that lay ahead to even know where to begin to address it—so we spent a lot of time darting around it and avoiding each other because of it.

In turn, the control freak inside of me began to lose it. I remember one afternoon, after receiving another one of our many “the trial has been postponed again” calls, I was taking Tytus into the doctor for a well check appointment. My pattern of wanting control was at an all time high. The trial date—that had been written in permant marker on my calendar, was not going to happen again; Shawn had spent a whole weekend ignoring me to caress his need to make Jordyn feel like his number one, so he didn’t fear her feeling unloved; and Tytus was having problems with his emotional health and allergic reactions.

My control barometer was in the red zone. I sat in the doctor’s office waiting for our turn, the whole time on the verge of tears. Soon the nurse called us back. We sat quietly in the check up room

—my face was on fire from holding back all of my emotions. Just like many in my family who had gone before me, I tried hard to sweep my emotions under the rug to keep up my perfect front. 

The doctor finally walked into the room. He asked a few questions about Tytus, and did the usual checks. We discussed a few things that we could try for the little guy's reactions and the doctor was about to leave the room. As he reached for the door he turned around, “Ashlee . . . are you . . . are you ok?”

With that permission to share . . . the storm began, I could not keep my tears in any longer, “I  . . . I just can’t do it anymore. They called and changed the date of the trial again, and everything is just so hard . . . I just . . . I think they picked the wrong girl for all of this; I am not strong, not even a little bit. I can’t keep doing this. I feel like I am going crazy. I miss my normal life, where I could just be a mom . . . and do the normal things I once thought I was good at . . . and I just can’t take much more. I try to look like I am strong . . . but I need some help. I don’t know who to ask, or where to turn . . . it is like everyone thinks I am just fine now that I got married . . . like all the sudden I am not broken . . . and I just don’t know how to let go of all the control that I have lost, and I don’t know what I have control over. Everything is just . . . everywhere . . . and I don’t have control over any of it. I couldn’t control Emmett dying, or if he loved me. I can’t control if the trial will ever end . . . or begin for that matter. I am trying to be a wife and mother, but I am just so fractured . . . and I . . . I . . .  I am losing it.”

I am sure he wasn’t expecting all of that when he asked if I was ok. He looked startled and resumed his position in his little rotating seat in front of us—this time I was the patient. “Ashlee, you are doing an amazing job. I know so many people who have been watching you through everything and they tell me about how strong you are, and what a great mom you have been. I can’t imagine all of the stress that is constantly on you through all of this, and the wait . . . I can bet is excruciating. Would it be ok if we had an appointment just for you to see if maybe we can do something to help you through some of this stress?”

Wall of pride . . . NO way, you can’t possibly take medication . . . you have made it this far on your own, you don’t need this. You need to be strong, you need to fight through it. You have control of yourself. You don’t need help. Medication is for the weak, who need help. You are strong . . . you don’t need help . . . you have got this.  The thoughts in my mind tried to talk me out of it, but the peace in my heart knew that he was right. I was going to lose it, and it was ok to get some help.

Within a few days he had prescribed some anti anxiety pills. I only had to stay on them for a few months, but I don’t know what I would have done without them. That pattern of bull headed “I can do anything on my own” attitude maybe got me through a lot of hard things, but it also hurt me. So many times that I needed help, my stubbornness held me back from getting it.

Even as we speak, I have had a sore tooth all summer long. Instead of just going to the dentist and letting them fix it, I have tried to tough it out. Where has that gotten me—absolutely nowhere! My tooth is still killing me, and I didn’t gain anything from waiting, except a summer full of toothaches.

Why are we so set in our ways? Why do so many of the enticements our ancestors struggled with, do we carry on in ourselves? How many times do we get frustrated with our loved ones for a characteristic they portray—when we ourselves do the same thing?

I laughed the other day at the park when Tytus was ticked off about me letting Kaleeya ride her bike around the whole pond. He dragged his feet and whined the whole way because he wanted to run up and down the hill instead of ride around the trail like we had planned. Where did he get such a stubborn control freak arrogance? . . . well he got it from me!  So I am learning to laugh when my kids do something that I probably did a million times to my own mother. They come in their own package, but some of the things our children do that we see as weak—are just some of the strengths we have passed on. Someday those strengths may pull them through something hard; and other times these weaknesses may hold them back.

Every family has patterns that have been set and carried on for years.  Some of these traits are priceless treasures and amazing characteristics, but many are dark emotionally driven fears. What patterns has your family passed down, that are not worth carrying on? I made a list last night of all the patterns I don’t want in my family anymore. Some I saw in my husband or our children—but most of them I found within myself.

Every family is unique and different. Some families are excellent sweepers. Everything is swept under a rug, where they feel it is safe and will never be revealed. Some families are fakers, they pretend everything is perfect on the outside, and then behind closed doors everything explodes. Some families struggle with addictions. Some families struggle with arrogance and pride. Some become doormats and let others walk all over them. Some families have histories of affairs, or gambling or pornography addictions. Some families are sleeve wearers—they tell everyone everything that is going on in their life and in their mind; and then others hold everything inside.

Now I am making the human race sound like a bunch of sheep—like we are all just followers. I know that not all people follow the patterns of their heritage’s past . . . but I believe that is because somewhere the patterns were broken. I think we all have weaknesses that can be passed or carried on in our beliefs and behaviors, but many have learned to overcome or break these patterns.

Our history is not our destiny.

Just because your dad, your grandpa, and your great grandpa died of an alcohol addiction—it doesn’t mean you will. I believe we have a choice. If alcoholism is in your blood—don’t take a sip. If you have already been sucked in by that addiction—get help out. Maybe your mother beat you every day of your childhood—that doesn’t mean you have to become the same kind of abusive parent. Maybe your dad was a yeller—and you hate that you have followed his lead.  You can stop that pattern in yourself! We are never destined for anything. We may feel that the weaknesses passed on from our parents tempt us to join them—but the only way they win . . . is if we lose.

We can chose to follow in footsteps, or we can pattern our own course.

Every trail that has ever been tread had to begin with one person. Some have called these pioneers—the first to adventure from the normal life they once knew, creating a new path. Being a pioneer doesn’t always take a wagon and some oxen. Being the pioneer of your life can mean breaking patterns that were once followed blindly.

Stop chasing the patterns of crazy that came from generations back. You will never have all the control of the things around you, and you will not always feel like the #1. You may never feel like you have it all pulled together, but you can find hope in yourself as you center your desires on making yourself the best you can be. You may not be able to change anyone else, but you can always make a difference inside of yourself. Sometimes that means asking for help, and other times it means figuring it out on your own. Fighting to change a pattern doesn’t always have to be done alone, but sometimes it is when you make shifts on your own that you will find a true change of heart.

One thing is for sure—patterns of behavior were not all intended to be carried on. They may be the tool that is holding you back from the life you want to have. Just like the walls of the past that get triggered to be built, patterns of the past can be broken and changed.

Examine who you want to become, and what behaviors or patterns are keeping you from those goals. And then make a change. Seek for a power much greater than your own to help you find the answers to change the parts of you that are holding YOU back. It is inside of ourselves that we will find the answers to our role in the world. 

“If you really want to understand the social world, if you really want to understand yourself and others, and, beyond that, if you really want to overcome many of the obstacles that prevent you from living your fullest, richest life, you need to understand the influence of the subliminal world that is hidden within each of us.” (pg.189)
Decide Now: The Good Life or The Best Life 

Maybe your walls were built with the patterns from the examples before you, but you can be the pioneer to a new pattern of life. Our heritage of weakness doesn’t have to be what we become. Turn to God to make those weaknesses become strong. He has promised that his grace can heal even our weaknesses, and they can become our strengths.

Believe in Him as your soles find new paths from the ones you once followed before.  Take His hand, and let Him help you remember the worth of your soul . . . for you are great in the sight of God, and even your path matters to Him.

Blood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Triggers

By definition the word trigger is:

Noun: a small device that releases a spring or catch and so sets off a mechanism, especially in order to fire a gun.

Verb: to cause (an event or situation) to happen or exist.

On March 11th, 2011 a trigger was pulled that sent my life into a whirlwind. I had never thought much before about the power of a trigger. It is an important mechanism for a gun to function properly. The gun cannot fire unless the trigger is pulled and the gun’s power is useless without that little mechanism.

     

After any traumatic event or major moment that has negatively impacted your life, you carry around memories of that event. Whether or not you are even aware of them, they stand ready to re-ignite a state of fear or panic. For me, I have learned that the memories themselves also have triggers. Some of those triggers have been surprising and others have not been at all. For example, I had no idea that such a simple thing as a doorbell ringing could send my body into a state of shock.

   

Each individual in my household has had a different experience with his or her own personal triggers. For one, it has been a boy with a fake gun in the front yard. For another, it has been something as simple as flowers sent by a friend.

   

One night, I had to be in a building not far from the Walgreens where Emmett had died. I had always parked on the other side of the building, almost without even realizing it, but this evening I decided to take a leap. I parked closer to the Walgreens and went inside, feeling very brave, as if I had finally overcome my personal battle.

   

When the night came to an end, I said goodbye and started out to my car. As I opened the door and exited the building, I stepped outside to a view of Walgreens with sirens and lights flashing everywhere. My body went into a state of shock, and I felt as though I were standing and witnessing first-hand that dark night my life had changed dramatically three years earlier. I ran back inside, shaking and crying. Luckily, I was greeted by familiar faces who didn't even have to ask any questions about my state of panic. They finally calmed me down and talked me through it to get my breathing normal again.

   

I had no idea those emotions were still so easily accessible inside of me. I’ve been through many similar situations in the last three years, but somehow I thought I was over the extreme reactions. As I lay in my bed that night, I thought about all the triggers that have stopped me in my tracks during the past three years. It all started with the trigger of that gun being pulled . . . and now I am still being paralyzed by the triggers in my mind.

A trigger changed my life back then, and triggers continue to disrupt my life when I least expect them. And unfortunately, it seems like there is no way to prepare for them. That night I was next to the Walgreens, I had no idea that a trigger would be pulled for me. It was just an average night, but walking into that one scenario sent me spiraling back in time.

For a long time, going into grocery stores and preparing meals were triggers for me. I have spent many moments in my pantry hyperventilating . . . completely stuck, because flashes of the night Emmett died would sink down deep inside of me. I would picture myself preparing all of his favorite food that night and just waiting for him to come home.

Every time a siren whirls by my house, I freeze. So many triggers. Fireworks. Babies crying. My security system going off. Lights flashing on the ceiling when a car drives by. Knocks at the front door. People whispering when I walk into a room. A song on the radio. Smells. Lockdown at the kids’ school on Valentine’s Day, and no way to be let inside to make sure my babies are safe.

A while back at church, we were having a lesson about when Joseph Smith was killed in Carthage Jail. Someone was reading in our manual about the men who came and shots were fired. It was like I actually heard the gun go off . . . my heart started racing and every rational thought was erased from my mind. I grabbed my purse and ran into the bathroom. I sobbed and shook in the bathroom stall for the rest of the hour, unsure of how to get rid of my panic. Nothing was wrong, but there was no way to logically talk my body out of the state of shock it had gone into.

I have no idea why our bodies have such a drive to bring back to our minds the fears of our past, but they do. These triggers are like mechanisms in our lives that set off fear or a remembrance of pain.

A few days after Shawn and I were married, we were sitting in our giant bathtub. We were talking about the kids and the events of the day. I was trying hard to relax and enjoy the quiet hours in our home. All of the sudden, an ambulance turned on its siren nearby.

Another trigger. I had not fully prepared Shawn for these moments. He had no idea of what to do to help me. My panic attack lasted a few minutes, and the whole time, Shawn just held me. I didn’t have to say a word. He just let me cry.

About a week after that, Shawn surprised me by bringing home a movie he had been told was amazing. He brought home dinner as well, and we had a quiet date night while the kids were all asleep in their beds.

As the movie began, one of the first scenes was of a murder. A trigger fired again, spiraling me back to the night of the trauma. It was getting embarrassing, and I began to feel sorry for this poor man who had married me.

That night, after my heart finally stopped racing and we lay in bed, I turned over to him and said, “I gave you a chance. I warned you I was broken . . . you should have run away when we were sitting at the waterfall, and never looked back.”

He reassured me, calming my fears as he kissed my forehead, and whispered, “NO, I am right where I belong.”

A few weeks later, I decided to surprise Shawn at work. I grabbed him one of our favorite strawberry lemonades from McDonalds and headed to his work. His car wasn’t in the parking lot. Another trigger fired.

I pulled into a stall and began to sob. He wasn’t at work? Then where could he be? My thoughts went to the worst case scenario, which for me was: he’s either cheating on me, or he’s dead in a parking lot somewhere.

I grabbed my phone and dialed his number. He didn’t answer right away, which only helped confirm my worst fears. Once he finally did answer, with all of the anxiety built up in my heart, I let him have it. “Where are you? Why aren’t you at work! You said you were going to work . . . and I finally get brave enough to come and visit you . . . and you know how hard this stuff is for me, that you even have to work with other women . . . and I am here, and you aren’t even where you said you would be. You told me you were going to work. So where are you? Am I not enough for you, or what? Can’t you even call to tell me you aren’t going to be at work, so I don’t have to worry? Do you not want to be married to me anymore? Is there another woman?” Every possible insecurity I suffered from spewed out of me in one breath. I didn’t even wait to hear where he was, or what he was doing. As the words were leaving my mouth I was embarrassed for myself, and yet, there was almost no other alternative to handle the fear boiling inside of me.

This wouldn’t be the first time Shawn had to pay for my having one of my triggers go off, but in that particular moment, instead of him trying to make his case defensively, he just listened and reassured me. He calmly told me about the errand he had run and from which he was returning, and he reassured me that he loved me.

My heart calmed down after hearing his kind words. I apologized for taking out on him all the pain from my past, and I ended the call. My head fell into my hands, and I sobbed hysterically. What was wrong with me? Shawn had never done anything to lose my trust, and yet here I was treating him like he was the bad guy in my life.

The poor man! Anytime Shawn did anything that Emmett used to do (AKA . . . being a man) it set off a trigger of fear inside of me. If he came home with an energy drink, like Emmett used to drink, my heart would start racing as if he had come to tell me he had found another woman. If he took Nyquil so he could sleep when he was sick—which was the reason Emmett had given me for running to Walgreens that fateful night—my head would pound with memories of the past. None of the triggers ever made sense to me, or to Shawn, but they were so real.

One summer day, Shawn asked me and the kids to come down to a car show he was participating in. When it was over, we parted ways and I told Shawn we would meet him back at home, since we had come in a separate car. I assumed he would beat us home because I had all the kids and had to spend the time loading all of them into the car.

A few miles from our house, the traffic had come to a stop, and I tried hard to see what the hold-up was. As I veered my car over to the side, to look past the line of cars waiting in front of us, I could see that there had been an accident and that one of the cars involved was a black SUV that looked just like Shawn’s.

I called his phone. No answer. I called again. Nothing.

This time the trigger that went off inside of me was not just pulled, it was blown! I threw the car into park, knowing that my panic attack was going to leave me light-headed. I could see ambulances creeping up in my review mirror, and I could hear sirens coming from all around us.

My heart sank, trying to brace for the truth of what I thought was happening. Shawn had been in that wreck. He had left a few minutes before us, and now this was going to be my next hill to climb. I began sobbing, working the kids up wondering what on earth was making me freak out.

Bailey could tell I was losing it and suggested that we say a prayer. Her tender voice began to quiver as she spoke to God. She prayed that mommy would be able to calm down and get us home safely. She prayed that Shawn had not been in that accident in front of us, and she asked that we would all be blessed with a feeling of peace.

As her prayer ended, I knew we had to get home. I did a U-turn and went down the nearest road I could find to get us home, all the while praying that I would be able to breathe and get our car home safely.

We pulled into our driveway, but no Shawn! I called his phone again. No answer. I called his parents who had been at the car show with us to see if he might still be there, but they said they hadn’t seen him since we had all left.

Worst case scenario. Was I living it again? The kids ran inside, and I stayed in the car. I continued to pray, this time out loud. “Please, let him be safe. Please bring him home to us. I am so scared.” I begged and pleaded in the quiet of my car, hoping with all of my heart that Shawn had not been in that wrecked SUV I had just seen.

I tried his phone again. No answer.

I said one last prayer before I got out of the car. “You know I may seem strong . . . it may look to some people as if I have myself all put back together, but I am so broken. With all my heart, I pray that Shawn is okay today, but Father . . . if he isn’t, please help me to be strong again. Please help me to stand . . . I feel like I am falling. Please help me to know what to do.”

As I opened my car door, Shawn pulled up.

This time, I wasn’t mad. I was just plain relieved that he was okay. As he got out of the car, I ran over to him and jumped into his arms, “I am so glad you are okay. I am so happy you are home.”

Progress. This time, my trigger had been pulled . . . but I had won the battle. I didn’t have to yell and scream just because I was scared. Even though I was upset, Shawn hadn’t done anything wrong. It didn’t matter where he had been, or why he hadn’t answered his phone . . . I was just glad he was home. (It turned out he had stopped for gas, and his phone was in his bag in the back seat.)

Triggers. They are not just mechanisms on guns, they are mechanisms we each have inside of us that bring forth fear and anger. We cannot control when they are fired, but I have learned that I can control what I do with the emotions that follow.

I have seen others’ triggers go off when they are cut off in traffic. I have read stories about shaken babies who have died because of their parents’ desperation to have them stop crying. We have all seen fights happen over something that later seems insignificant.

When triggers fire, the aftermath can be devastating. A gun may fire a bullet when a trigger is pulled, but what trigger inside the man went off first to have made him pull that trigger?

We have to learn to control our fears and our pain when our own personal triggers ignite. Acting on them never brings peace, and carrying out their plan never brings happiness.

There have been more triggers in my life since that gun’s trigger was pulled, but I have found that I can determine who I am in spite of their power.

When those situations arise, and the dark cloud envelops your entire being . . . pray for the power that can help you win. We do not have to fall victim of the triggers in our lives. Rob’s gun had a trigger. It was pulled in anger. Emmett fell victim to its power. I fell victim to that trigger in my life, but I will not fall victim to its power in my heart.

I chose to stand up to the triggers that have tried to destroy me. I will not be a victim, but a survivor of the powerful triggers that have brought me to my knees.

Whatever dark triggers have been pulled in your life . . . it is not your fault. Whatever triggers have ignited in your heart . . . you are not broken. We may seem like victims to the world, but each time we stand, despite our pain . . . we are survivors of all the triggers that have tried to make us fall.