You are of infinite worth

Had an amazing day today by myself. I was worried about the busyness of life and trying to get inspiration for my conference coming up, but instead was reminded of something I know everyone in my house needs:

To understand their purpose

To connect with God to find their mission

And to learn what their spiritual gifts are

These are three of the reasons we are on this earth. But before we can find the answer to these questions we first have to know our worth and to truly see ourselves as God sees us.

Does your family know they have value? Do you see value in your own life?

These are struggles in all of us. At one time or another in our life we question if we are important, valued, needed, or wanted . . . or worth anything to anyone.

Yet, when someone tries to tell us we are . . . we can't hear it in them as love, until we can find it first in ourselves. And ironically, even when we think we can give it to other, we will fail until we can give it to ourselves. 

So to find love on this earth we have to first find it from heaven. Because the earthly love that gives us a high for a minute--when it comes in the form of another person or thing . . . can easily be taken from us. 

What are your eternal gifts? Do you believe God created you just the way you are on purpose? Do you see that His masterpiece is unique and beautiful (or handsome for you men)? Do you only believe that when things are going your way . . . or even when you make a mistake?

The cool thing about our Heavenly Father is his infinite love. He loves us no matter what. So why can't we?

The truth that the darkness in this world wants you to avoid is that YOU CAN. 

Trauma, fear, anger, hate. Those lies tell you that you will only be lovable when you are void of them. You can only love yourself when those emotions are not present. 

But the truth is: YOU HAVE INFINITE WORTH

and will be loved forever by God. 

Once we embrace that, our mistakes are less scary. Other peoples words hold no weight, and we no longer take personal another person's issue, even when they try to make it ours. The world looks brighter, because we don't have to worry what hard thing comes our way. It won't change that truth. 

Hard things will come. Most days have a version of them. But hold to that truth. You are not alone. You are not forgotten. And you will always be loved. 

God created each of us with a unique purpose and gifts. Where ever you are, and where ever you have been, has been your journey to find strength inside yourself so when you find your worth it can and will be POWERFUL. 

You are a powerful being, with a warrior spirit fighting to remember truths that have been there all along. A unique beautiful gift to the world. 

8 Steps to Overcoming Betrayal Trauma

I was speaking for a betrayal trauma seminar retreat going on in California today over FaceTime on my computer. So I decided part way through to record to share with you all. Sorry you missed the first part. I showed my dirty house after the twins late night birthday party last night . . . yikes!! 

Thank you lovely woman for having me today. I know it is hard as woman of faith to overcome this trauma of betrayal while you feel like you are the only broken family. You are not alone! We are all fighting many battles! Never stop.

These are eight steps I have found to overcome betrayal trauma and find freedom from the pain. 

The Voice to Change

Besides little notes in my journal about powerful moments in my life, I spent most of my time pretending hard things had not happened—or internally dwelling on the fact that they did. One night during the trial I got this overwhelming feeling I needed to write. I sat down at my laptop and words began to pour out of me.

Heartache, pain, fear, hate—all of the emotions that had been trapped felt clear as they escaped from their hideouts. As I typed, I pictured who would ever read the words I could now see on the screen—NO ONE. EVER. Maybe my kids when they were grown and parents of their own children; maybe at a distant time when their own personal struggles left them feeling a need to know about their past.

I pictured handing them a stack of papers—possibly made into a nice covered book—and looking into their eyes and saying, “Now you will remember why it still hurts.”

I was so full of bitterness and pain it was woven into every page I typed. Each story was filled with the hate I had been carrying for the three people in them. Each letter on the screen was racked with fear. In those moments of writing I could not see the silver linings. I could not see the angels. I couldn’t even remember the happy times—all I could write was the pain.

It only lasted a few nights. Many pages filled with my hate, and the stories of the past. Soon it became too much and I decided that writing words on a computer screen was not going to make a difference in anyone’s life . . . especially my own.

I made a vow with myself to never visit those memories again and my computer remained closed.

Sitting across from Keith Morrison with cameras and bright lights in my face . . . is where I broke that vow. We talked for hours. Every emotion—I had been working so diligently to hide—came streaming out with every story I told. He asked me questions about that night, about my family, about the trial, but the ones I remember most were the questions he asked about my pain. I had held it in so long, and so robotically during the trial, it almost hurt coming out—but nothing had ever felt so good.

My throat burned every time a question was asked. For the first time since that night, I felt like I truly had a voice—and someone cared how it felt . . . for me. I could not stop the tears from flowing. No rules were put on how I could feel; no one was watching to use my insecurities against me. I was free to speak.

I remember looking across the room to a man I had seen many times on TV and thinking . . . What am I doing here? After all those promises to keep these stories quiet? After all those nights of collaborating with myself . . . truly believing that my healing would come as everyone just forgot about our struggle? Why . . . why am I doing this?

But I just kept talking—and it actually felt good.

Even the tears didn’t hurt as much as they too were excited to fall out.  It didn’t make sense in my mind, but my heart felt free.

I thought that would be the one and only time, but it turned out my healing through sharing our story . . . had just begun.

On Jan 6, 2014 I woke up with a perfect knowledge of what I was supposed to do. I had spent the weekend wrestling this overwhelming feeling that I was to start a blog and truly document the past for my children.

On Friday the confirmation first came to me in the temple. The feeling that kept repeating in my head was: I need you to be a voice for some of my children who aren’t listening. I first thought that meant I needed to begin writing in the book I had started during the trial. Then the thought repeated with more urgency, and as clear as day the idea of the blog was imprinted in my mind.

I didn’t say a word to Shawn about it. Saturday I was an emotional wreck battling my prompting. I was moody and angry, and kept avoiding everyone. Sunday was no different. By Sunday night Shawn finally pulled me into our room and said, “Ash . . . what is going on with you? You have not been yourself this whole weekend. Pretty much since the temple on Friday you have seemed so angry. Are you upset about something? How can I help you through whatever you are going through? Do you need to go for a drive? Do you want to take a hot bath? Can I give you a blessing?” His questions wanted answered, but I didn’t dare tell him of the journey I felt I should do.

We put the kids to bed and walked back into our room so Shawn could give me a blessing. In the quiet of our house Shawn laid his hands upon my head and spoke my name. An amazing spirit filled our room. In the middle of the blessing he stopped. The pause was longer than normal and I could tell he was trying hard to say the things he felt Heavenly Father wanted me to hear. As he spoke he repeated almost word for word what I had felt in the temple a few nights before. He said, “Ashlee . . . Heavenly Father has a plan for you. He wants you to be a voice for some of His children who aren’t listening. He wants you to find peace from this pain. He wants you to find the hope you have been fighting silently for. He wants you to be free from the past, but to embrace the story. Heavenly Father needs you . . . He needs you to stand up and share His message through your healing. There is no need to fear—He will guide you. Just have faith and follow Him and you will be blessed with the healing you seek. Ashlee, this was always the plan. You are where you were made to be. You will be blessed in your faith. As you stand tall, you will feel whole. And I leave these things with you, in the name of Jesus Christ Amen.”

Shawn’s hands were still on my head. We both sat there in the silence. He finally spoke, “Hey  . . . Ash . . . Do you have any idea what all of that is about?” I replied through my tears, “Actually, yes. I am afraid I know exactly what I am supposed to do.” Shawn took his hands off of my head and walked around until we were face to face. He said, “Well, if I were you . . . I would do it . . . like now.”

In my final effort to fight for my desired silence I shared with him the last of my fears, “Shawn . . . I can’t . . . I . . . I don’t want to do it. I told you the day I met you I couldn’t wait to just have all of this behind us and not talk about it ever again . . . and now I feel like I am supposed to just start writing—on a blog—that just anyone could get on and read. I don’t know if I am ready to do this . . . I don’t want to do what I feel like I am supposed to do. It is . . . going to be so hard and humiliating all over again. And . . . I . . . don’t know how to be vulnerable, and write about something that hurt so bad. I don’t even know how to talk about it without crying, how would I even start?”

He grabbed my hands and brought his eyes closer to mine. He whispered, “Ashlee. I understand you feel scared. I have watched it all over your face this entire weekend, but what if it is part of your healing journey? What if it helps someone else? I wish I could say there was an easy way out, but I don’t think you have a choice. You can spend the rest of your life angry and bitter like you have been this whole weekend—fighting another plan—or you can just do what you know you have to do. Either way I will support you, but you have to decide what is more important. Maybe it won’t be easy, but maybe it really will be what makes you feel whole.”

I went to bed, still filled with turmoil on what I knew I should do and what I wanted to do.  I hardly slept at all that night. My mind was filled with doubt. Doubt in another part of the “plan” I never planned. Doubt in the promise that delving into the past would help me let it go. Doubt that bringing to surface my greatest pain could bring me peace. Doubt in my ability to spell, punctuate, and communicate properly in any form of the English language. Doubt that I would be able to remember anything worth passing down to my posterity. But even more than all of my fears, doubt that I would fail what seemed to be a mission from my creator.

When morning finally came I rolled out of bed and fell to my knees. I prayed with all my heart, “I believe in grace. I believe that we each came to earth with a mission and a purpose. I have seen your hand in every day I have lived. I have literally seen angels on earth. So, I believe in hope. I believe in miracles. And if this is the plan you have for me, as scary as it may seem . . . I will do it. Not for me—heaven knows I don’t want to—not necessarily for anyone who happens to stumble across this blog I am about to make . . .but for You. Heavenly Father, I have a family who one day will need to read these words. They are too young to understand now, but someday they will be so thankful for this. So I do this for them. I will not fear. I will pray every time I write that the words will be the voice you need them to be. Heavenly Father, I am still filled with so much anger and hate . . . I don’t know what else to write about. So if this is supposed to be—help me remember the good. Help me remember the angels. Help me remember the times when I had something to learn, and something to change. Help me to forgive, and repent, and let this be a journal that is real. Help my children someday to be able to use it through their own struggles. I see that this has to be. Help me to overcome this fear. I will be a humble servant in writing truths . . . please help me to learn them as I write. It’s a scary place we live in. So much of the past has caused me to doubt the future. This earth has so much evil, so much wrong every day . . . help me to see the good. I know I can’t change the world . . . but Father, please help me change myself.”

And a blog was born. It needed a name. My first thoughts all had to do with the pain and the hard times. Then I reflected on my prayer. I was going to remember the good—the times we had every reason to fall, but we didn’t . . . the times we wanted to give up—but carried on. The times we were carried by a power greater than our own. The Moments We Stand.

I typed it in and goose bumps covered my arms. It was perfect. I wasn’t sure where I would begin so I just started typing.

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

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

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

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

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

I clicked publish. I felt this rush of love surround me. There was a calm and peace I had never in my life felt before.

The first time a stranger posted a comment on the blog I panicked. It took me a few hours to talk myself out of shutting the whole thing down. I had promised faith—so I carried on.

I was getting emails from strangers reaching out to share their own stories. People were stopping me in public with tears in their eyes telling me how much my words had touched them.  News stations were calling and asking for interviews for me to share my story.

I had a hard time even reading the comments, not just the mean things people said—also the kind words. I felt inadequate to be the receiver of praise for something I had almost refused to do, but for the first time in a long time—I knew I was right where I belonged. I felt a connection to a plan that was created long before me.

I watched so many miracles take place around me in those first few months. Hearts were softened; bad decisions made right. I met a lot of new friends—all with a story of their own.

After years of spending hours and hours with therapist, and living in fear of being who I was . . . another miracle happened. I started finding me.

The nights I would pour my heart out at my computer—with tears falling onto the keys—I wrote our story. And in it—I wasn’t just the victim without a voice, or the naive wife who was blindsided on a cold March night—I was standing. I wasn’t the worthless soul I had come to believe was my destiny. I wasn’t broken—I was learning how to mend. I didn’t just look back and remember all the things I had done wrong or was wronged by another—I was blessed to see it all. The words that fell from my fingertips were stories of hope and love and becoming. The memories were of the miracles and the gifts through the storm. All of the sudden the bad didn’t hurt as much as the blessings felt good. The pain wasn’t as lonely as I remembered the tender mercies.  The darkness didn’t feel so heavy as I pictured us being pulled out by the light.

The purpose of the pain showed me where I belonged. I wasn’t alone in the dark of the night typing on a tiny screen—and the perfect view I now saw of my life showed me I had never been.

Every time I went to type about hate—I remembered the blessings instead. The darkness that had overpowered my view would lift so I could see. I had a purpose—and a mission to change what I had become.

Our missions are all unique. I wish I could just tell everyone—struggling to find out who they are—to write. I wish that finding our purpose was something someone else could do for us—but it is not. When we truly find where we are supposed to be, it is when we block out all the sound around us. We listen to the still small voice inside—beckoning us to remember the plan.  Sometimes on our knees in our closet, other times alone in our car . . . without the noise. There are voices everywhere— telling us who we should be—people and things, promises of healing, price tags of happiness . . . endless noise that in the end will only leave us feeling inadequate and defeated by opinions and images of others who seem to have it all figured out.

So we can keep asking our friends on Facebook who we are supposed to be and what will make us fill the voids that hold us back inside—or we can step back and reach up. To feel whole we will not need the help of anyone else but God and the grace of Jesus Christ. He will send messengers to help us remember truths, but our connection to Him can help us remember His plan for us.

Our plans will be filled with shadows and valleys, but we can’t forget that even the darkest of nights turn to day—sometimes we just have to be patient while we wait for the timing of the sun.

You will find brighter days.

We were all sent here with a purpose. If it has been, it was always meant to. Our mission is to find where God needs us to be . . . not to change the world—but ourselves.

Jan 6th, 2014 first post on the blog:
Stand Tall: You are Not Alone

See parts of my interview on Dateline NBC:
Dateline episode

Fight

I remember being pregnant with my twins and thinking I had it all figured out. I had a birth plan all written, and I pretty much knew exactly how my birthing experience would be. I had been on bed rest for contractions for months, and thought for sure that being induced would not be a decision I would have to come to. We had spent months fighting to keep them inside, so I figured they would just crawl out when the time came. Boy was I so wrong.

Thirty seven weeks was our golden number. When that week came my doctor was in shock that we made it that long. He took me off bed rest and told me to get out on the streets and walk my heart out. I probably walked forty miles in a few days. I was determined to get those babies out naturally. I continued to have endless contractions in my journeys on the streets, but every time I would go back into the office he would check me and I hadn’t even dilated at all.

By the end of the week, and with no progression my doctor scheduled my induction. Both babies were head down and I kept my fingers crossed that my natural birth plan I had fought so hard for would be carried out, despite my set back of being induced. I was frustrated as the next day rolled around and my scheduled induction was up. I walked in the hospital, a little deflated that the first bullet point in my designed birth plan would not be happening for me.

It was early evening and my doctor began the process. He said it could be fast, but most likely I would see slow progression throughout the night. The next morning came and went, still no babies. My contractions were consistent, but barely any progression still in my dilation. My desire to continue my natural birth plan kept me hanging on with no drugs other than the Pitocin to create stronger contractions. They would up the Pitocin every few hours in a hope to see more progression. The pain was almost unbearable by early afternoon. Every time the nurse or doctor would check me they found I had progressed very little. Nurses would beg me to get an epidural or take some pain meds, but my stubborn nature kept me driving to keep up the fight for my natural birth.

By evening I was in so much pain that tears would roll down my face every time I had a contraction. The Pitocin was turned up so high that my contractions were only about a half of a minute apart, so I had little breathing time in between. There came a point when baby B began to panic. Every time a contraction would start, her heartbeat would plummet. It was like the contractions were causing her to go into a panic attack. Her heart rate would drop dramatically and then would become very sporadic through out the whole contraction.

My doctor finally came into check the baby and me. After finding out that I was only at a three he started to get serious, “Ash . . . I know that you have written out this idea of how today was supposed to go, and we have laughed and called you the iron cervix for the last few months . . . but this isn’t working. I know you are against an epidural, but I really feel like maybe it would help you relax and allow your body to do its job. You have been fighting for this plan, and I don’t want to take it away from you, but I really want to get these babies out without doing a C- section. If baby B doesn’t start handling this labor better, I am going in after her. So you can keep fighting through this the hard way, or we can try to do something different.”

Within minutes my birth plan was gone and the epidural was in place. With the pain taken away I started focusing on my struggling baby. Every contraction seemed to affect her. Every time I saw her monitor waver I chanted in my mind, “Please let her be OK, please let her be ok.”

A half an hour after the epidural was in place I got the urge to push. I told the nurse who almost laughed, “Remember when we just checked you, and you were only a three . . .” Finally I talked her into getting my doctor, and sure enough— I was at a ten. They rushed me to the operating room. Since we were having twins, it was that hospital’s practice to deliver in the OR.

As soon as I began to push baby B’s heartbeat would almost stop. After a few more pushes my doctor started to panic, “We have to get that baby out of there!” He grabbed his tools and suctioned baby A’s head right out. She was beautiful, she had a healthy cry, and she looked perfectly pink—well perfect except for the little red yarmulke that had been left by the suction machine.

He searched for baby B’s head, “I feel a hand . . . and a foot . . .” My heart dropped—TRIPLETS? “She has flipped . . . I am going in after her.” And he did, clear to his elbow! He grabbed her by the feet and yanked her out. She was as dark as a blueberry. My heart stopped as I held my breath to hear her cry . . . Silence. The nurse could tell I was not breathing well and handed me an oxygen mask. I tried to stay calm as I could hear them flopping her around and trying to get her to breathe. As more time passed I could feel the tension in the air—something was wrong with our baby. I pulled the mask away from my face and screamed, “What is happening . . . she hasn’t made a sound . . . is she ok . . . please, somebody tell me what is going on!”

For what seemed like an hour no one said a word and all the nurses and the doctors were gathered around our baby. I felt like I was in a dream as my heart cried out, “Heavenly Father, please, help this baby girl. Please help her keep up the fight and make it through.” I sat frozen with my head in my hands. Every things seemed to be in slow motion. All the nurses scrambling—no one looking me in the eye.

And then it came . . . the loudest baby scream I had ever heard. It was as if she was answering my prayer, “Mommy, I am not only here . . . I am a warrior, I wasn’t going to give up that easy. I am a fighter!!!” The sound every mother waits for.  They rushed the twins off to the NICU while I caught my breath.

As the doctor was getting me ready to head back to my room, he found something interesting. He held up the placenta, which was the last thing on earth I wanted to look at in that moment. He looked puzzled and walked over to where I could get a better look. He said, I have never seen anything quite like this before. Both babies umbilical cords are connected in different places, but baby B’s cord was barely even hooked on to this sac. Can you see where baby A’s cord wrapped around the whole right side of the sack? That is what it normally looks like.  I have read about this many times, but never seen it so dramatic. I have no idea how that second little twin of yours even got any nutrients, let alone lived. Usually when it is this disproportioned, one twin ends up getting all the growth and the other one doesn’t make it. You are so lucky, obviously that little girl is a fighter.”

She was a fighter—just ten minutes into her life and we had learned a lot about our little twin . . . Bostyn. She wasn't going to give up. 

Fast-forward a few years. Emmett is in law school at Gonzaga. Bostyn is four years old. We were at church one Sunday afternoon and Bostyn comes into my class crying with blood running down her eye. I took her into the bathroom and cleaned her up a little bit. A few nurses who attended our church took a look at her and suggest I take her to the little 24 hour clinic close by. I took her in, they threw some glue in her cut and sent us home. Easy enough.

That night Bostyn woke up screaming. I tiptoed in and reminded her that her eye was just sore from her cut. She went back to sleep for a few more hours. At 1:00 a.m. she was screaming again. This time I flip on the light and run over to her bed. Her eye was the size of a baseball and totally swollen shut. Emmett ran her into the hospital, which was an hour away.

For the first few days they treated her for a MRSA staph infection. By the second night Emmett and I were sitting in the room watching the infection spread like wildfire down her neck, and over to other eye. By this time she couldn’t move her head and could barely see out of her only open eye. Doctors kept reassuring us that it would start to go down, but as the evening turned to night we all started to panic. Doctors began coming in to schedule surgery for the next morning to start to drain her neck and try to get rid of all the infection.

I remember at one point stepping out in the hall and pacing the floor. My baby, who had an identical twin sister, was going to have scars all over her neck and face, or worse . . . they weren’t going to stop the infection and she wasn't going to live. I felt worthless— I was right there, and I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t save my little girl. I paced the hall for twenty minutes searching for an answer inside of my mind. Nothing came.

In my pacing, I came to a dark hallway where the lights had been turned down. I rounded the corner out of plain view, and lost it. I burst into hysterical tears.  Through my sobs I prayed harder than I had ever prayed in my life, “Please. The infection is spreading through her body. They are not finding answers and I feel helpless, there has to be something that can be done to save this little girl. I need an answer, and I can’t sit here any longer. Please send us someone who can save her.”

As I whispered in my mind my final AMEN, words began popping into my head. I almost ran down the hall. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I knew exactly what I was going to say. I finally made it to the nurses station and with a power not of my own I began shouting out demands and pointing at people, “You are going to call the infectious disease specialist . . . You are going to go order this test to make sure this infection has been properly diagnosed . . .” I don’t remember much more of what I ordered that room full of nurses to do, but I do remember by the next morning many specialists had entered her room, prescriptions were changed, and Bostyn could move her neck and see out of her good eye. She didn’t have to have the surgeries or have draining tubes inserted.

That day I fought . . . for my daughter’s life. I fought for a power to send someone to help save her, and I was given the words to command the right people to come our way.

Sometimes we fight for a purpose, and sometimes we fight for a fear.

About three months after we got married Shawn and I had our first big fight. He came to me one Sunday morning and said he was going to go to the drag strip to race his jeep while we were at church. The minute those words left his mouth here is how my mind worked: He obviously doesn’t care about me; He is willing to break a commitment he made to me about what we would spend our Sundays doing; He doesn’t care about my feelings; He doesn’t care about the example he is giving my kids; If he can be easily swayed on our simple commitments to each other then one day some girl will talk him into walking out on our big commitments; He will leave us; He will cheat on me; Then he will be murdered in a dark parking lot for sleeping with another man’s wife.

Boom, boom, boom . . . Within a fraction of a second the scenario my mind created was flaring red flags through my entire body. He can’t possibly choose a choice I don’t agree with, or else he doesn’t care about US. He can’t use Sunday for racing his jeep, or he is not going to be a good dad.  He is going to abandon us. My kids deserve a perfect example in every way; we don’t deserve THIS. I guess he didn’t want to marry me in the first place. If he can’t even keep his word on something as simple as how we will spend our Sundays, he is never going to make it.

By the time he walked out the door to leave I was like a volcano spewing with all the fear of my past, and the imagined pain in my future.

I ran out into the garage and like an idiot rattled off every fear that had crossed my mind, “Shawn . . . I thought you were the kind of father that would give these kids a good example . . . I thought you were going put their need to see a good husband above your stupid ideas like white trash drag racing. If you can’t even give up a simple thing like what Sunday activities you would rather do than go to church, maybe MY kids and I deserve better than this.”  My eyes burned with all the fear that was driving my words. Did he even love me? Did he really want to be their dad? In that moment I could not detach his desire to make his own decision about how he would spend his time that day, from his willingness to love my kids and me.

As he should have, after getting berated by his crazy wife, he left. I watched him drive away and I felt like a piece of me died again. My mind went back in time to Emmett telling me he was going to leave and run to Walgreens. I could almost feel my soul scream, “Don’t go . . . please . . . something is wrong. Please just stay here with me.” I could feel the toxic shock of fear wave through my entire being. Emmett had left when I felt he should stay—and he died. How could Shawn do this to me again? Was he ever going to come back? Was today going to be the day when some normal, healthy, not broken girl would come and show him all that he was missing? Or would it be the day when deceit would come his way and drive him to his death? 

The thoughts that overtook my power seemed as real as the car that had just sped away. How could he say he loved me if he didn't even want me to be a part of his decisions? If he couldn’t see how important it was to me for him to go to church with us, why would he not chose my choice? How could he come back and be a father now if he wasn’t perfect in everything he did, or in the promises that he had made? If he was going to disappoint us, maybe it would just be easier to walk away. If I wasn’t worth making good decisions and fighting for, maybe we were done.

My fear of losing him was trying to get me to believe I no longer wanted or needed him. I truly thought we would get divorced that day—either because of my unwillingness to accept his personal choices and imperfections; or because of his unwillingness to include me in his decisions and follow the simple commitments we had promised each other.

He was only gone forty-five minutes. He later told me that he drove to the racetrack, determined to show me that he could do what ever he wanted without “asking permission”. He said as he pulled up to the track he sat in his silent car for a half an hour struggling with the internal battle of what to choose. He too felt the overwhelming feeling to just give up that day. To stop fighting for what we had been building, and stop trying to carry such a heavy load that had been placed upon us.

By the time he walked in the door we were both a heated mess of fear.  We battled all afternoon back and forth. I was determined to show him that his stupid choices could ruin our family some day; and he was determined to show me that he had to be able to make his own choices and still be loved regardless of if they were perfect or not.

We both had very valid strong points, but this day neither of us could look through our own pain to see the other’s fear.

The crazy cycle is a wonderful definition of what we were in. My fear of living the past over again urged me to try to push Shawn into making all the right decisions— for me. His fear of feeling mothered and control caused him to want to make his own decisions— just to make sure he still could.

I don’t know about other blended families— but for ours when a major argument would happen, it seemed our natural reaction would be to walk away. We both had felt like we had been through enough in our first marriage, that this was supposed to be our easy one . . . right? Any heated fight we would have, even about simple things, would somehow end with one or the other of us thinking or saying that maybe we made the wrong decision to marry each other. Maybe we would be better off alone.

It was like no matter how many good days came our way, the minute contention showed up on our doorstep we would want to abandon any of the hard work we had made in our marriage. It seemed we would just give up the fight and walk away.

At times, blending two families is difficult. You both come into the marriage with fears from the past. Whether divorce or death— your past has been hard, and therefore your new marriage has many challenges right from the beginning. Fears are powerful especially in new families that have come from a broken past. The power of your pain can ignite at any given moment. For us in the first few years . . . it happened often.

Sometimes the strength of passion can help us overcome and fight through; but other times the weakness of passion can hold us back and hinder us in our progression.

Shawn and I have come a long way since that day, but we haven’t stopped fighting. But now, more often than not . . . we fight on the same team. We are passionate about our family, we fall victim of fears, but a few things have changed . . .

One day our crazy cycle was in full force. The kids were all downstairs and we were up in our bonus room going back and forth over something about parenting. It was going nowhere fast, and neither of us was willing to compromise our stand. All of the sudden Shawn said, “Ash . . . stop. Get on your knees.” We knelt down together and Shawn offered the sweetest prayer. He asked that the dark feeling in our home could leave and that we could see each other’s point of view.

By the end of the prayer I felt a peace surround us. We stood up and threw our arms around each other. He looked at me and said, “What were we fighting about again?” I replied with tears in my eyes, “ I have no idea . . . but whatever just happened there . . . was amazing. You are worth fighting for, I don’t want to fight with you anymore, but I want to fight for you. We are not perfect people, but I don’t want anyone else. This blending family stuff is hard. I never even had a clue how much extra work it would be to try to make our families come together . . . but I chose you. I chose us. I will fight for us!”

I wish I could say that that magic moment has cured us of the urge to nitpick the way we parent each other’s kids, or the way we baby our own . . . it hasn’t! I wish I could say that at times we both don’t want to run away and that we are the perfect blended family—we aren’t. But the prayer on my knees with my husband was a powerful reminder that God can help us even when we can’t see what things are worth fighting for.

We are all fighters in one way or another. Some are fighting for their lives; others are fighting for their country. Then there are some of us who are fighting for a cause we don't even know. Sometimes we forget what we we are fighting about, and other times will never forget the fight that got us through our battle.

We were born to be fighters. Just like my daughter Bostyn who fought her way into this world, we all have the desire to win and succeed. But what if we are fighting for the wrong cause? What if all the fighting we are doing alone is only getting us farther away from what we really want?

Every good fight starts with a drive, a powerful force of motivation: Fighting for your little girl in a hospital bed; fighting your own battle with cancer. Some fight their way out of addiction or depression. Some are fighting their way through an imperfect relationship. Sometimes the victor will have to walk away and not look back, and other times the win may come as they have to hold on— even when they can’t remember why they are there. 

No matter who we are, we will have to fight a good fight. Every good fight ends with love; every bad fight ends with hate. Fighting as a team will get us a lot farther than fighting alone.

Sometimes our fight can change the world, and other times our fight will merely save ourselves. There is a battle raging in each one of us, a fight for good and a pull of evil. Not every fight is worth dying for, not every motivation a good cause. Not every fight will be viewed; some battles are never seen with the human eye. We are all warriors from the battles we have won. We are all soldiers when we battle with grace. We all have the power to be our own captain and know when it is time to just let go of a fight that can never be won, or pilot ourselves to a battle worth saving.  

Don’t lose yourself by fighting a fight of destruction. Some battles only rage because of a fear of losing. If it were easy, it wouldn’t make us grow. Life is going to be full of battles, good and bad. Whatever fights you are hanging on to, make sure they will bring you up. Fight for the battles that are worth winning, and let go of the battles that are worth losing.  Fight for a cause you will never lose. You are not fighting alone.