Failure

I need to apologize. In January I announced that Shawn and I had just finished up the process of a divorce.  I did it with no warning. I was so scared to be viewed as a failure—so afraid that I was letting everyone down. I was so afraid to even just write it. So scared to read the ‘see . . . we told you that this would fail’—s that I knew would come. And they did. Because that is who we are—human beings—all of us imperfect, trying to do our best to hold it all together—all the while judging those who cannot accomplish what we too fail to be. Sometimes we aren’t kind to each other. And in a moment when I already feared failure, some people were unkind to me.

But this is not anything new. Because I received similar attacks when I lost my husband to murder seven years ago. People blaming me, and putting me down. So today I wanted to share how it made me feel—both times—in a moment when I needed support, to have some people try to tear me down.

And I am not sharing this as a way to get anyone to change their feelings about what you view as my failures—because I don’t really care what you think. But there are people around you, whether in your real life—or your virtual life—who can’t see past your dark words. They feel like they are drowning. The things people say are hurting them so deep, they can’t stop the pain. They feel alone every single day. They have had to make grown up choices that they have felt unprepared to make. They are raising babies by themselves, not because it is easy . . . but because life doesn’t always turn out like we planned. Maybe their circumstances are because of their own poor choices, but maybe—just maybe—they didn’t have another choice to make. Maybe your put downs will help them see what a failure you think they are . . . or maybe they will literally send them over the edge of the dark cliff they are already hanging from.

We may think we have all the answers for everyone around us, but what I have learned to be true is . . . we don’t have one. Each person—whether rich or poor, tall or short, male or female—we are all capable of making our own choices. Unfortunately those ready to make choices will also have to stand accountable to God for their decisions . . . but too will they stand before Him in the choices they make that are not as black and white—decisions only He knows all the different parts to. And just like you, the people you see as failures . . . might just being doing their best. And maybe—just maybe—what you view as their failure, could be the very thing God asked them to do . . . to succeed.

So I just want to throw out a challenge to this big fat universe full of opinions and words. The challenge is that we use this gift of technology—of knowledge, of freedom of speech . . . to bring light. We have enough bullies in our own minds, we don’t need to keep hurting each other. If someone is going through a hard time . . . take the opportunity to lift them up. They already see their own failures, what they need today is a friend—because they may not even have one of those in themselves.

To be Christ like we don’t need to be the ultimate judge—but we have been asked to be the ultimate friend. And a friend is someone who doesn’t see differences as failures—but believes in the person who is trying their best to succeed.

Thank you to all my friends who have stood with me through all the roads I have been asked to walk. You make a difference in my life, and your light brightens my world. Thank you for your examples of love, support, and friendship. 

Feels a lot like fear

As a fellow widow the author C.S. Lewis once said, “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”

Though there are so many of us who have had to grieve the loss of a loved one, I don’t think many would say they have mastered such a skill.

It’s funny how when you go through something hard everyone seems to dub you as the expert in that subject. And there comes a few split seconds that you actually start to believe that you have it all under control—until you don’t . . . and reality slaps your insignificance back into your face.

I came into this summer prepared that we could possibly lose a part of our family. Emmett’s dad had been battling cancer for a while—not long after his only child was murdered it showed up. More recently doctors had begun to warn us that time was getting limited.

I remember walking into his house—for the millionth time—the day before he died. I could feel it in the air. I had spent hours with him that week, but this time had to be quick as we were driving out of town to go to my grandpas 90^th birthday party in Utah.

I choked up. Just like the days before he could sense in me something that was similar to fear. He told me not to be scared. He told me that he would see me again—and for a man who had never known religion, I smiled to know he was thinking of a life after this one. He asked to see Teage, and as I watched his oldest grandson lay by his side I knew in my heart it would be the last time we would see him.

We got the call early the next morning. Papi was gone.

I was expecting him to go, but what I was not expecting was the wave of grief that would surround me all summer long. Grief does feel a lot like fear, but the hardest part about grief is it doesn’t just help you mourn the loss of that moment—it takes you back to every time you have lost before.

So I did what I do best—I marched. I planned a funeral again. I spoke and sang with my girls. And then I spent the next four weeks cleaning out their house.

And that is where my fear really took over. Every day cleaning out the memories of three people I had never planned on losing. Ten years ago—8 months pregnant with Teage—we planned the funeral of Danise, Papi’s wife, after cancer took her suddenly. I didn’t know if Papi would ever smile again after she was gone. They were soul mates those two.

But then he did. And he tried so hard to be the dad and grandpa we all needed. He welled with pride in everything Emmett did—especially our family.

And then he and I lost Emmett. I didn’t know how to tell him, after watching him be alone after all those years. It was rough. That moment fractured many parts of all the relationships I thought were so stable. But unlike so many, he never disappeared. I know it wasn’t easy coming to our house after that, but he did. He usually wore his sunglasses, and I could always see a tear beneath the dark lenses—but he was there. Football games, birthday parties, Christmas—and he never once complained of anything he had lost. He took in Jordyn and Shawn and celebrated them as part of his family. He never distinguished his biological “family” from the rest of us.

Most of the time he came alone—surrounded by my family, and Shawn’s—but he always smiled through it all. 

He even came and sat behind me almost every day at the murder trial. Not because he wanted to be there . . . but because he didn’t want me to be alone. (I will write another post soon about the notes we found that Papi had taken during the trial).

So as I spent most of the summer at their house I had a lot of time to think, to pray, to ponder . . . and many days to fight a feeling that felt a lot like fear. Fear of losing. Fear of loving. Fear of letting go. Fear of not knowing what tomorrow is going to look like.  All the fear I thought I had overcome over the last six years—many days—came flooding around me.

Those split seconds I had spent—just months before—hoping I was some sort of an expert by now, were replaced by many days leaving me wondering if I would ever know anything ever again. I had no desire to blog. I felt pretty unworthy to share anything about finding strength or how to overcome, because frankly I didn’t feel like I was.

And then the coolest thing happened. I was totally and utterly rejected. 

Late one night I received an email from a woman—I had a contract with to go speak next Spring—informing me that we would have to cancel my trip . . . due to my religion. They didn’t want a Mormon girl to come talk about Christ. At first I became defensive. Christ? Isn’t mine the same one that all the other Christian’s believe in? What would make me less worthy to share what His grace has done for me? I was confused, embarrassed, and dumb founded . . . but mainly I was hurt.

That night I cried like a baby girl. I felt alone. I was rejected and left wondering—for the millionth time—if I was enough. The darkness of the grief from the summer came to a head, and a feeling—that felt a lot like fear—took over every ounce of me.

I spent the night praying for peace from what seemed—in the moment—to be another life rejection. Evidence—if we want to go back to my last post—of what I feared I was. A loser? Not worthy? Defiantly not enough.

The next morning I walked out to Tytus sitting on the couch, awake way to early for how late we had stayed up the night before. I am pretty sure he could tell I was a hot mess. I sat down by him and he put his head on me, patted my leg and said, “Jesus made me a good one. ” Thinking he was talking about his Pokemon, the dog, or some other cool thing I asked on, “A good what buddy?” He replied, “A good mom, best I have seen.” I got a little chocked up, “Oh yeah . . . what about me this summer makes you glad I am your mom? I feel like I have hardly even seen you guys as you have spent most of it in Papi’s pool while I cleaned out his house with Roxann. I have been so busy we have only done like two things on our entire summer list. So what makes you think you know I am a good one?” He replied, “I know because . . . everything you do is for us. And Jesus.”

And there it was. I talk a lot about that little glimmer of light—some of us call it grace—when Christ sends us that perfect little moment to help us remember our truths—we can see so clearly. Just because I had spent a lot of the summer hurting, and people thousands of miles away had decided I was not what they were looking for . . . I had done a lot for Him. I was enough for the ones it really counted for.

Never losing anyone—and living a “perfect” plan is not how Christ sends us that love. Going hundreds of miles away to share my heart to a room full of strangers is not where I will find it. Because—just like Christ—we are going to have our own Garden of Gethsemane moments; we are going to have to bear our own crosses—moment after moment.  We are going to have to learn to stand . . . again and again and again.

Some summers are going to be filled with sunscreen and sand. Others are going to be filled with hard work and some feelings that feel a lot like fear. I miss Papi. I know without a doubt he is with his wife and his son and there is so much more to death then we all know.

But what I do know is that no matter what our religion—even those like Papi who never will have one—Jesus loves us all. He doesn’t see us in religion, skin color, or even how we handle those feelings that feel a lot like fear. And I don’t either.

So though this summer was very rarely days that I had planned, I am grateful for the light that showed me through the hard stuff again.

If you are standing at one of those crossroads wondering—for the millionth time—as we all will do, if you are enough . . . I hope today you let that little glimmer of light remind you that you always were.

No broken contract, no imperfect day, no stranger will ever be able to tear us down if we keep searching for our worth in the places that count.

The world is just going to get darker. Keep your head up. Shine like you don’t know how dark it really is. And on those days that feel very similar to fear—don’t lose your faith. Not in yourself, or God, or the world. And especially not in His plan. He has your back . . . just be prepared of how unprepared you might be. “Life is a trip” Papi used to say. And it’s true. Mike. Thanks for being one of my dads. I am grateful for the million times I got to see you then, and the million times I will get to see you again.

Love you the most Big Papi. I know you know now what you only hoped for before. You were enough. He loves you . . . and so do we.

As promised to many who loved Mike and didn't get to the funeral. Here is the audio of my talk and his sisters song, and all the others who shared. Also... a video of the girls song! Thank you Bergen for recording these. I never would have thought to, but they have meant a lot today. 

A few thoughts I wanted to share weeks ago, but didn't post...

March 11th

Today was six years since my kids lost their dad. 

Yesterday I stood in front of a group of senators— asking them to remember our babies as they evaluate an amendment to the constitution that would help victims have rights. One thing I know for sure...how hard it is to watch your babies hurt, and have nothing you can do about it. 

Last year these five helped me create this video for a friend who had lost their dad. I always thought I would be able to give my babies a perfect world—but instead they have given me hope that good can still exist after the world let's you fall. 

March 11, 2011 you didn't break them. They are fighters. They have never been victims. To me they were always the strongest survivors.

Day 3: LOOK UP

Look UP

She stood at the edge of the cliff, watching the rocks fall beneath her feet. It was hard to see what was on the other side through the fog. She looked behind her—all that was left of the trees were trunks still smoking and black. She looked down the canyon—left and right—the water rushed through the gorge, the caps were white and she could feel the chaos that churned in their power—each rapid reminding her of the storm that raged inside.

At this point she had only two choices: jump—and never have to feel any of the pain ever again—let the water take it all away; or turn around and try hard to find her way through the wreckage— back to the place that took everything from her, alone to pretend life was worth living.

Time stopped as she stood at the greatest crossroad of her life. Looking down . . . nothing seemed promising, a fatal steep drop, the easy way out. Looking back . . . a darkened broken picture of what once was.  The view of the mess sent chills down her spine and a pit of fear in her stomach. She didn’t want to die, but she no longer could live as if she were dead. Her eyes didn’t know where to turn their gaze, every direction a reminder of her worthlessness. She was not enough. Yes, this was all the evidence she needed—this moment made everything so clear. For the first time in her life she had nowhere to turn, and worse . . . no one by her side.

Did anyone care she was alone? Would anyone notice if she wasn’t there? Her life—or her death—wouldn’t effect anyone else, so what did it matter? She wanted to just jump and make it all go away. Each thought and each glance brought about more and more fear. She was frozen, broken . . . and alone—her darkest hour. She thought about her life, each moment leading up to this day—all the broken promises and pain. She thought about her death and wondered if she had already been forgotten. She didn’t know who to be angry with: herself, everyone else . . . maybe God?

“Hey God . . . are you out there?” She could hear her voice echo through the canyon walls. “Can you hear me? Can anyone hear me?” She looked behind her again . . . no one. She looked down the canyon—right and left—nothing. She held her head down and stared at her bare feet. “I am going to die here . . . and no one will care . . . and no one can even hear me.” Her pleas began to grow loud, “I am going to die here . . . please don’t let me die alone. Please let me just have one do-over. I am so scared, and alone, and humiliated . . . and so . . . so . . . forgotten.”

Soon the fog began to surround her. It was so thick even the canyon view began to grow black—she looked back to more darkness. At the edge of the canyon the world went black and she was surrounded by her fear of being alone—she stood in the darkness battling her demons. Hours passed, each one bringing more and more panic for her need to look down and check behind her. Total darkness, utter isolation. Her eyes began to scan the world for any glimmer of light—and that is when she realized she would have to look up.

As her eyes gazed toward heaven she felt a peace unlike any she had ever known. For a few minutes time stood still and she could finally see. Like a movie playing on a screen, she could see herself living a life—her life. She saw a glimpse of light in her eyes, and beauty in her soul. A magnificent love surrounded her and for a split second she knew in her heart that God had a plan. In that moment she could see herself on the other side of the canyon. She was not only living, she was laughing and smiling . . . and she was standing tall.

But how could this be? A broken girl, with a broken soul . . . she could never be whole, or loved. She could never be enough. Or could she? With nothing but a glimpse of a promise, she set out on her journey in the dark. She decided she would move forward even if she had to take just one step at a time. For the first time in her life she would live each day with grace, knowing that she could not change the past . . . but she would have a future. She was still stuck in the fog at the edge of a deep canyon, but she was going to live.

And that is what she did. Some days she could barely see with so many tears in her eyes; some moments she couldn’t breath with so much pain in her heart, but day-by-day she began to find herself. You see, the angels couldn’t just pick her up and set her down across the canyon . . . but they walked with her through darkness, they battled with her through the valleys and the streams. They showed her the pathways to take and the hurdles to cross, and eventually they helped her find how to become that girl—the one smiling and standing on the other side of the canyon. 

She saw many miracles in those dark days, but the greatest gift she received was the rocky course—the bumps and the bruises—that taught her how to fight.  It isn’t until she hit rock bottom that she realized she was only half way living when she was at the top. Strength came when she had to find—for herself—just how strong she was. That fight is what showed her that she had worth—that she was enough for God. It wasn’t an easy road, or a paved path . . . but she fought every step of the way. And as she looked toward heaven, she was reminded how—not why—her journey was different than the one she had planned, and she knew without a doubt that she was never alone. He was there through that fire, He was standing with her by that raging water, He was catching the pebbles that crumbled under her feet, He felt every pain, He heard every fear, and He wiped every tear. He was always there, but the moment she could finally feel Him . . . was when she decided not to look down, not to look back and wish for what was, but . . . to LOOK UP.  

 (pic by Holly Marlin)

Our greatest honor

This morning I got my kids off to school. I cleaned up my house for a few minutes, and then went into my office, wrote in my journal, and did ten minutes of sit ups and push ups. I got on my computer to get some work done for my January conference coming up in Arizona—opened up my email to see a few new emails from Bailey stating boldly she finally decided what to do her debate paper about: Why Guns should be Illegal. Accompanied with a graph that showed the percentage of murders by weapon—guns being the greatest source of wrongful deaths.

An all too familiar feeling took over my body. My heart started racing and my breathing felt heavy. I looked around the room—in slow motion—as I could feel my body racing back in time. Images, thoughts, fears, anger, sorrow . . . the usual wave of triggered emotions engulfed me within seconds.

I haven’t sobbed so hard in a long time. First of all . . . for the pride that swelled for my brave daughter as I knew this decision must be part of her healing process, but second for the fears and insecurities that beckoned inside of me. For a few minutes at my desk I felt like a failure—reality of my children’s childhood blaring at me across a screen. Thoughts began beating me down—You didn’t protect them from this. You are a joke of a person. Clearly you haven’t survived anything if your daughter still hurts this much. You let them hurt. You can’t fix this. You are a pathetic loser, and not even a real mom. If you had been a better wife none of this would have happened to them—they wouldn’t have to spend the rest of their life hating guns, and trying to figure out how they can fix this world you ruined for them.

For a minute I let the thoughts have their voice in my head. I felt confused and panicked and alone. I felt trapped, and dark and full of fear. Tears kept on coming as I whirled through the facts that proved all of those thoughts true.

And then all the sudden I realized something—they were all lies. I said a small prayer and begged for angels to come take the darkness from my mind. I closed my eyes and pictured what I know grace to be—a Savior who loves us and holds us through our struggles, a brother who never leaves us alone, a friend who understand ALL of our pain, and a partner who stands by our side—I knew more than anything I needed Him in that moment. And guess what? Within minutes the fog faded, I opened my eyes, and stood up and walked out of my office. Not just feeling ok, but feeling strong. I felt confident and proud of my daughter who was fighting just like me.

Grace in action. He promised us He died for all of our pain . . . but how come in those moments we almost always forget that promise?

Moms. We do so much. We hurt for our babies, we cry for their pain. We plead for their peace. In a small little baby fraction of a way we know how powerful the Savior’s job must be—not just for a few—but for all of us.

I have talked to thousands of moms about the battles they face. This post is dedicated to those moms in this world who never stop fighting.

First I want to start by talking about a few of the fights that I—and other moms—have battled. These phrases are direct quotes from moms who have been there.

Survival mode. (Also known as denial)

No progression. Stuck. Frozen. But not debilitated. Fake it until you make it. When the damn breaks it is hell...cause that pain comes oozing out. Shakes, upset stomach...constant companion. Hard to eat, or to stop eating.  Hard to find joy in anything . . . but try purposefully to remain neutral on bad things as to not upset the fear that is keeping you alive. (I lived in this mode until long after the trial)

“This is reality” mode: when everything you thought would bring happiness is over—or finally yours—but you are still hurting. Closure isn't in your vocabulary. Everything seems harder than in survival mode, because your fog of denial has been lifted—this is reality. Debilitating fears. Panic attacks. Hard time. Constantly overwhelmed. Harder to fake your smiles. Not even surviving . . . just breathing.

Fighter mode: when every life trial that comes feels so overwhelming that you literally have to fight every day for your life. Something goes wrong every day. Feel like you are constantly overcoming something hard and looking to its end for relief . . . only to find that another trial comes to replace it. Feel like the universe is against you. No rest. Sitting at the window looking into the dark. Feeling unsafe wherever you are. Always on guard.

“Too Overwhelmed so I avoid” mode: Even the simplest of task—like the thought of helping a child with homework can shut you down and make you want to scream . . . or run away. Pretending to be in the bathroom for long stretches of time, seeing everyone else’s perfect lives. Wondering why you didn’t get the life you deserved. Kids watched a movie all day. House is destroyed all the time. No order. Just chaos. Kids out of control, won’t listen. Always fighting with siblings. Turn to addictions: working out, shopping, eating, social media . . . just to avoid the overwhelmed feeling of the lists you need to complete. But the more you avoid the lists . . . the more overwhelmed guilt engulfs you. This cycle is one of the craziest, because until you stop it—on purpose—it takes over your life. But you usually can’t even see you are in it, because those avoidance tactics feel so much easier than facing the battles.

Ok, these are just some of the stories I have heard, or felt in my own life, when it comes to parenting through struggles. Some of these woman say they have no reason to be dealing with this stuff—AKA no huge trauma that brought on these struggles—so what we are going to clear up first and foremost is that thought, because even just thinking that your battles aren’t worthy fights causes more guilt that ultimately creates more failures in our homes. The idea that your struggles can’t be as real as someone who has been through a traumatic event is absolutely not true. Each person’s dark fogs are as real for them as they are for anyone else.

So here is the deal . . . we all suck sometimes—some of those sucky parenting moments are “justified” because of the life experiences we have been handed . . . but whether we are aware of why we are triggered—with overwhelm and anxiety—or not . . . it is happening, or will happen at some point along the way.

So this post—though I could spend seventy years writing about the failures that I justified because of the failure I perceived as my life—is to empower us moms to not just fight the battles in survival mode. . . but to fight them with intention. Make a plan against the enemy who wants us to spend this life avoiding—not doing anything “bad”—but forgetting where we are going to make the most impact, or seeing where we already have.

We have the power to undo the damage that Satan does to our minds and our souls. We are not worthless; we are more powerful than we even know. He wants us to forget it every day—don’t let him. We have to fight through the fog.

So let me break this down for a second.

We have to start every day with a plan. Write down a few goals you want to accomplish. Do something every morning to get spiritually centered, because when mommies are off . . . aint no one going to have a good day.

For me this looks like: writing a letter to God, listening to an uplifting talk or inspirational video, uplifting music (my favorite is Paul Cardall’s Pandora station) at least ten minutes of some sort of exercise (even if it is dancing around with your newborn in your arms) and a morning prayer. I know the physical part doesn’t seem like it goes with spiritually centering yourself . . . but it is what engages your body to be able to get centered on where God needs you to be each day . . . here on earth. Healthy food, drinking more water, living within your means, getting out of debt, and cleansing your surroundings are other ways we can show God we are taking care of the vessels He has placed us in to fulfill our mission. (I will cover a few of these in some later posts)

So once you feel connected to God, and to the earth . . . you can better be able to figure out what your day is to look like for Him. Visualize the connection—vertically up to Him and down to this earth. (Horizontal connections keep us in the fog . . . ex: depending on other people’s approval before doing anything, addictions we use to avoid life, waiting around for a new outfit to make you feel pretty enough to find your confidence) And that part about also being connected to the earth—it is where we are and the place we have to be to find our purpose and mission. We can spend all day trying to get close to God, but if we don’t allow ourselves to be content in the path we are on . . . we will continue to avoid the inspiration He tries to send us.

So this is the first step—always—when overcoming the fog. NO other person can take it away, just Christ. That is what grace is—it is His mission alone to carry us through and help us fight our way through our battles. Notice I didn’t say OUT of our battles . . . because if we don’t work through them, they will only come back stronger. We have to feel and allow ourselves to be vulnerable to really heal and overcome the hardships and triggers in our lives.  

Ok, so now we have the first step. With the fog cleared we can find our center, and in our center we can find our mission and purpose each and every day. When we know who we are and why we came here—we are powerful. As mothers, as wives, as friends . . . in all the roles we play. So that is why Satan wants us to forget. Our greatest battle we will ever fight is to keep remembering our truths.

So here is the truth: I want more than anything in the world to be the wife and mother I believe I can be. I want to be patient and loving. I want to teach my kids how to physically and spiritually find their way. I don’t want to let them use any excuses of their past to ever live under their full potential. I want to teach them to be respectful and kind, and how to tell the truth. I want them to be loyal. I want them to know they have good inside of them. I want them to one day see—as I am still fighting to do—that we don’t have to be afraid of guns. I want them to be proud of the men and woman they are going to grow up to be. I want them to always remember me as a mother who took the time to listen, who made the most of every moment and who wasn’t afraid of the dark. I want them to know how to find the light in their lives, and remember the miracles that we have seen. I want them to grow up to be warriors, who never give up or give in. I want to keep my promises, and show them how to do the same. I want to teach them how to stand, because their story has so much good in it. I want them to be proud that the one consistent in their lives is Christ. I hope that each and every day I show them how to live like Him.

We are going to make mistakes moms. We are going to stumble and fall, and some moments are going to hurt. But we aren’t alone. I know from the bottom of my soul we have a Creator who made us to be just the way we are, and sent His Son to live and die for us. Grace is for us too, in those moments when life feels like it is letting us down—again. Your story is beautiful, you just have to fight to remember why.

They won’t remember the perfect pictures, they won’t remember if their socks matched or if your kitchen floor was always mopped and the food was always hot . . . they will remember your smile, your warm embrace when they were scared, your bright eyes that told them they were safe, and your soft hands that wiped their tears. 

We cannot take away all their pain, but we—with the Savior—can show them how to win. The real failure will not have anything to do with the awards we did not recieve, or the sites we did not see . . . it will be if our babies grow up without us because we were so wrapped up in waiting for something more.

You are there. Live in this moment, today. And do it on purpose. No regrets. What they will remember most is the easiest to do, but also the easiest to forget . . .

You are doing a great job. Don’t you dare give up. Put down those phones and laugh like you have never laughed before. Not because everything is finally how you thought it should have been . . . but because it is exactly where you were born to be. Motherhood is the greatest work we will ever do. The world might fail to recognize all the sacrifices you have made, but God has seen EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.



P.S...
(I got on here to write some recipes, requested by a few of you on Instagram Story. Apparently I got a little distracted. I will work on those in the morning, also a post on my mommy store I shared on Instagram Story!! Thank you for always encouraging me in the little things. If you have read my first book, you know that cooking used to be a HUGE trigger for me. It has been fun to get back to finding passion in it again. I will be honored to share those recipes and ideas on here! Thank you so much for asking.