Lodged

I love Robert Frost -I've always had a weird complex with jumping on Fan Trains.  This is why I didn't read Harry Potter until everyone else had quit and why I don't do chevron anything.
If it has a fan following, something inside of me strongly resists.
There have been a few exceptions, and Robert Frost is one of those exceptions.  I'm a Frost Fan.

His poetry keeps me on my toes.  I read through them and find a surface message, but I return and dig deep and find a deeper message.
As I read, "Lodged," I smiled.
It is depressing on the surface, conjuring up images of beaten little flowers -victims to the unrelenting nature of nature.

But it isn't depressing.  It is empowering.

A garden bed brings up two pictures in my mind: a plot of fertile dirt, waiting for rain to bring forth fruit.
And a bed/bed... as in the kind of bed I kneel beside, just as the flowers knelt.

I lay lodged, though not dead.
Ah, that beautiful storm that bring me to my knees, it FEEL lodged in those moments.

But I know that when the rain and wind move on, I shake and straighten... my blossom glows brighter, my stem stronger.  Those around me grow as a result of my storm.

Praises be to the storm.
May you kneel during the push and pelt, for glory and grace are waiting.

Fields of Toil

So often trials are compared to storms -dark clouds, rain, torrent... then comes the rainbow, then comes the rest.

Sometimes He lets it rain.
Dark clouds.
Sometimes He lets the storm rage and calms His child.

A few days ago, I sat on the shores of a lake in Arizona.  I was up in the pines, camping with my family.  We were squeezing out every last drop of summer.  Danny was fishing with the kids, and I'd just finished skipping rocks. I didn't buy a fishing license because
1) It saved us some money
2) I don't know how to fish
3) I have notebooks that love being written in on the shores of lakes in the pines

My toddler and I stuck together because she didn't care about fishing either.  She climbed up rocks, throwing her hands in the air.
"Queen of the world!"

I beat my record in rock skipping: FIVE.  And for the fiftieth time that trip, God sent me a Valentine to let me know He sees and cares.
A Valentine skipping stone:

I tucked it in my purse.
My inflammation worsened -it had been flaring up, maybe because I was constantly on the move?  So I sat down next to my daughter and we threw big rocks into the water -squealing with every *SPLASH*
The water felt so good on our hot faces.
She put her feet in the lapping water and spoke to it, "Be nice, water.  Be nice to Alice."

I sat down in our red camping chair, hunkering down so the sun couldn't find me. It wasn't easy -the Arizona sun has a way of finding EV.ER.EE.THING.  Even the lakes around us were evaporating at a weirdly alarming rate, making fishing a pretty dumb idea.

I watched my daughter build a castle out of rocks and sighed in relief as the sun fell behind the ONE cloud in the sky.  My mind went back years -twenty, fifteen...

My Dad owns a farm and a small herd of cattle.  He was the living mash-up of the Oklahoma! hit, "The Farmer and The Cowman."
Oh, the Farmer and the cowman should be friends...
My Dad WAS a farmer AND a cowman.  This meant he grew his own hay which worked out well because he had 6 kids to help him grow, cut, turn, bale and pick up the hay.  After my brothers left home, he BOUGHT A MACHINE that picked up hay.  It was a betraying day for me... picking up hay was the hardest, most grueling part of the hay business and ALL THIS TIME THERE WAS A MACHINE THAT DID IT?!
But I digress.

Those hot Arizona summers picking up hay are scorched into my brain.  Some days I'd ride in the truck with Dad and watch in wonder as the boys in town would help my brothers pick up bale after bale.  Sweat would run down everyone's faces.  Their arms were sun burned and scratched... they could wear long sleeves but the length was torture... worse than scratched arms.
The hay was carefully stacked, row by row.  A special pattern had to be made to keep the hay from falling over, so one boy would stack and the others would pitch the bales onto the trailer.  The tractor or truck would pull the trailer along at a snail's pace.
I think they have a thing called Cross Fit now that gives men the bodies I saw my brothers build throwing alfalfa bales around.
When we picked up oat bales, I could help.  I couldn't pitch them to the top of the stack, but my patient older brother would help me nudge them onto the lowest part of the trailer.  As I got older -12 or so, I graduated to Driver.
I was complete bunk at it.
I was so nervous trying to do it PERFECTLY because the thought of messing up in front of the boys my Dad had hired was just unfathomable.
My first real-life crush was formed out on those fields.

I can still feel that hot sun, the sweat, the parched summer days...
As I sat on the shore and watched my daughter talk to her castle, I felt the metaphor for trials shift in me.
When trials rage in my life, it feels less like a storm and more like a hot summer day.  I'm racing against the tractor to get the bales pitched onto the trailer.  I'm the driver, the stacker, the pitcher... the sun is blazing, and sweat is rolling down my neck... my body is coated in my own perspiration.  With every bale I pluck up, one more is set down on the unending field of toil and sweat.
And THAT.
That is what it feels like.
No clouds, no drops of rain, no torrential storm to send me into respite.  Just sun.

We are taught that Christ is in the Sun (just read it in my scriptures, though I can't remember the reference!), and this is true for me... when I'm on that figurative field with those figurative heavy, rough bales, I am closer and nearer to God than ever.
It is HARD and it is TRYING and I want to give up and spit and lie down and I WANT TO STOP, but trials aren't like that.  Even when I physically lie down in the midst of a trial, there's still a blazing heat going on inside, ripping me apart.
The sun is a healing energy that also burns -it's made of FIRE.

My baptisms by fire has come through Christ and at NO POINT was it easy.

Coming home from those fields was the best -dunking myself into bath water, filling my body with water, eating a good meal, and sitting down.  You can't beat that feeling.  It measured up to the feeling you get after spending a day branding cattle and coming home to wash the stench of burning hide and human sweat off.
Nothing in this world has come closer to me than the way repentance feels than a long shower after a full day pitching hay or branding cattle.  Even rounding them up is less intense.

So it is with trials -after the work, the sweat, and the seemingly unending output on my part -there is living water to be had in abundance.  It's there all along, but after the trial it seems more precious.

God is in the sun and the water.  He's the most miraculous gift -the most present, the most mysterious, the most attractive.
And so we find that another sort of romance is flourishing on my Fields of Toil... I desire God, and unlike the hired hand I longingly stared at through my coke-bottle glasses, God actually knows I'm there and what's more?  DESIRES ME with a passion far deeper than any I've cooked up.

Because He desires me, He gives me Fields of Toil.
And that's where the metaphor shift is vital for me... I see the point of pain, I see a purpose -a loving purpose in pain.  Pain becomes necessary -thereby making it endurable.
My pleas to end it all, my declarations of self-weakness dissipate and I stand under the hot sun, knowing now, as I didn't five years ago, there's something great at the end of the field.

Knowledge, compassion, growth, clarity.

God has led me in the path of healing these days -physically healing.  He's led me to resources that will aid in boosting the negative ions in my life.
Negative ions are found in waterfalls and mountains, in nature -they energize and build us up.
Positive ions are found in electronics and man-made structures -they drain us.

There must be a balance.
And as I think of the rain falling, I see a gift from God, for especially in lightening there is a SURGE of negative ions, and we are uplifted thereby.

The world is my university -the sun my teacher, the rain my gift, the earth my healer.
And God is in them all.
And God is in me.

Seen Trials and New Guidelines

I'm truly sick.
Two days ago, I was balled up in a blanket on the couch watching (yet another) version of Jane Eyre and wanting to just disappear.
My surgery date is still pending, but I go in to schedule it on Wednesday.  I'm getting rid of my gall bladder because it's not working.  I mean: every dang day IT ISN'T WORKING. 

But this is common.  It happens to lots of people -mostly women.
I know this because I personally know SCADS OF WOMEN walking around without gall bladders.  Factor in those I don't know?  Sheesh.  Gall bladder issues are rampant, folks.
The great thing about it is I can hop onto facebook and get great answers and advice in seconds.  The unprecedented great thing about it?  People show up. 
My visiting teacher brought food TWICE.  Children are picked up and whisked away.  Phone calls, texts... I didn't realize that would happen when I asked for quick, "what do you do before having a knife stuck in you?" advice online.

Being sick has deepened my depression.  When I can't do anything or think clearly, I just sink. 

I'm so grateful for seen trials.  So grateful.
Seen trials bring pure love to your doorstep.

We live in a wonderful age where we can talk about bodily gas out loud, online, over the phone... and we're all pretty much okay with it.  We can say things like, "hey, make sure you abuse stool softeners two days before the surgery" and laugh ourselves silly.

Years ago, that wasn't the case.
Years ago, you didn't talk about stuff like that.  It was only to be handled behind closed doors.

I hold on to the hope that someday in the future porn addiction can be and will be talked about and addressed as openly as dead gall bladders.

Someday... maybe porn addiction will be a seen trial.

As awareness of it grows, the church has come out with new guidelines which I haven't fully read yet (I've read #1,2, and 11 so far).

So far it seems wonderful.  No replacement for my 12-steps, but a wonderful resource.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some Wal-Mart brand Slim Fast to nurse.
Want some too?  Tea time tomorrow at 2?  Anyone?  Anyone?  I promise probably not to fall asleep.

Oxygen Shortage

A little over 18 months ago, I was rolled onto my side, clinging to a hospital bed and ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN that death was a breath away.
The pain.  Oh my gosh, THE PAIN!  It was the most intense physical experience of my life. 
Danny was standing next to me, but he wasn't on the bed with me.  He wasn't feeling what I was feeling.  In short, he didn't know.
"My body is breaking," I cried out, desperate for someone -ANYONE -to realize and see!  SEE!
"Your body isn't breaking," Danny said.
I hated him in that moment.  My brain went into a tail spin.  I realized that everyone in the room THOUGHT I WAS FINE.
But I wasn't.

I knew I wasn't fine, but no one else could feel it.  In fact, they were certain I was fine!
"Your body isn't breaking."
The contractions weren't letting up.  Before one would let go, another would start.  There was no break, no rest, no regrouping, no recentering... there was a shortage of oxygen getting to my brain.
I couldn't THINK straight.

My body responded to the pain and that was that.
"I'm dying," I told my husband, desperate for him to TRULY SEE that I was -in very fact -DY.ING.
"You're not dying," he tried to soothe me.
Again, I felt crazy.  No one that wasn't me didn't seem to realize the seriousness of the situation.  I bypassed my husband and looked at a nurse.
"CAN'T YOU GIVE ME ANYTHING FOR THIS PAIN!?!"
She seemed surprised.
"Oh!  Yes!"
Apparently when I'd said a few months before that I wouldn't be having an epidural while I was in the hospital that I was one of those women who was against pain medication while birthing babies.  But I wasn't.  I just strongly felt I should have an epidural.  It was a gut feeling, so I went with it.
The hospital staff was obliging.  TOO obliging.
The nurse ran out of the room to order and get me some relief, and THAT'S when it happened.
That's when the baby decided maybe she ought to debut.

The nurse came back in, her hands filled with magic vials, "What happened?  I was gone for a minute!"
The baby happened.
Calm, serene, plump, quiet.  They placed her in my arms, and still.  STILL.  The pain was fierce.  I begged for medication.
"It will interfere with your bonding," the Dr. warned.
Oh my gosh, WHAT BONDING?  I was hurting so much I could barely focus.
It wasn't until a few hours after she came that I finally felt bonded to my baby and her cute little elf-like skin tags on her ear.  Her imperfections were just perfect to me.  I breathed her in.  I'd had two babies before, but this one?  Something was different.  I knew her.  I'd known her before.  It was a sort of foreign kind of "you're HERE" kind of reunion.
The pain -the seemingly lethal pain -brought me an immeasurable gift.

The trials in life right now seem to be just like those contractions.
Marriage broken.
Cousin hit a bus the same day Alicia starts job.  Dies twice on helicopter, makes miraculous comeback despite brain trauma.
I leave my full-time Mommying in the past and fully underestimate how hard it will be emotionally.
Grandpa in hospital.
Dad works shop and Grandpa's ranch.  Overdoes it.
Dad in hospital with viral infection.  Nearly loses the fight, transfers to ICU down int he Phoenix area. 
Alicia fields job without training because her boss (Dad) is in the hospital.
Dad comes home.
Danny leaves for 2 months to train for his new position (K9).  He's home on weekends.  The break is very timely.  As much as Alicia needs help, the marriage is just so fragile.
Mom goes into the hospital -knee surgery.
Thanksgiving comes -family tension causes a boundary Alicia hated enforcing.
Baby turns one -Alicia forgoes a baked cake and instead sticks a candle in a ho-ho.  Ole!
The next day, Danny and Alicia sit in front of the computer where Brannon is "present" as Danny reads his full disclosure.  Everything addiction related.  Alicia listens.  The session ends.  Alicia leaves town with cash and writes a very angry letter in a bed and breakfast while entertaining a fantasy about cancer... the kind that kills you.
Christmas.
Holidays.
Sicknesses.
Mom gets her other knee replaced.
Alicia starts to realize something is OFF and realizes she's going through depression.
The depression wreaks a strange sort of havoc in her life and Alicia struggles to understand what the eff is going on.
The baby begins walking and Alicia gives up on any chances of being able to sit on a clean floor.
Behind the mess of the depression and the actual literal mess of the house, the marriage situation is confusing at best and straining and worst.
But we work hard.  Counseling, group therapy, weekly meetings -both online and in person.  Sponsors.  Talking, connecting, honesty.
And then the group therapy ends abruptly.
As does counseling.
Danny's boss puts pressure of holy pressure on him.
Alicia's gall bladder begins assigning her a seat on the bathroom floor.
Each day she's sick -nausea follows eating.  Rinse repeat.  Surgery in July.

And guess what?
I'm at the "MY BODY IS BREAKING" point.  I can't breathe or see clearly anymore.  To everyone around me, I'm not breaking.  I'm fine.
But I'm on the table again.  Looking around for a blessed nurse with magic vials.
So many nurses are thronging me -food is brought in now and then, children are taken from time to time, house cleaning help both hired and volunteered is given.  The Lord is taking sweet and precious care of me as I cling to the hospital bed and cry out in desperation, "I AM DYING."

I used to wonder at people who couldn't seem to get enough help, who still despite seemingly having their basics needs me still struggled to just SMILE.  I judged them. 

And the Lord -in His sweet wisdom -is stripping me WHOLLY of that judgement.

All things will work together for our good.
I'm grateful for the suffering -it's setting a course for the way I will live out the rest of my life.  My priorities are shifted (and shifting), and if anything... if NOTHING else... the Lord is preparing me to serve His children with pure charity, unmarked by judgement.

I feel ungrateful writing these things.  I feel like a whiner.  I feel FEAR that people will hear my words and judge me because my basic needs are met and I'm still crying out from the bathroom floor, "Can't you give me anything for this pain?"

Today and everyday I will simply do the next right thing.
Living one day at a time?  When things are good.  Today I will live one moment at a time, one situation at a time.  One hour at a time. 

For when the oxygen returns to my brain, I will behold a mysterious, miraculous gift... imperfect and perfect, grand and small, a sort of birthing experience in it's own right.
And I know at that point -I will bond with it and look back on this laborious treachery as a worthwhile investment.

But for today, I'll just do the next right thing.

 

Learning Curve

Things have been so frustrating lately.

I sometimes wonder if life is truly STILL hard right now or if I'm just the world's biggest whiner.  As Danny and I have individually worked on our stuff, we seem to be falling short in a lot of places...

These past two weeks, we've been hit with losing not just my lifestar group but his as well.  We've also lost our counselor.  Thanks to a gall bladder that's gone bad, I've been getting sick after I eat no matter what I eat (though some food is less mean than others), and thanks to an insurance change I can't get it out until July -I've known it's been bad for months.  Danny's been under some incredible stress at work.
And we somehow have zero dollars.
I look around and see a broken house, a broken car, and how badly -HOW BADLY -I want to just burn this rental and move.  These walls have seen so much pain, so many old memories I want to leave behind.

As we begin again, each with a focus on God, I want fresh walls.
Not to mention that we're going to need some fresh walls soon anyway... three kids in one room isn't going to work forever.
But again -there's no money.  Despite our best efforts to pay off what debt we have (which isn't too much) and save a little -there's no money.

We've had some hard conversations, said a lot of prayer... and I don't know but that the Lord is closing some doors and not immediately opening any more.

I truly do feel grateful for this frustrating time because I can feel it stretching me.  I feel myself moving closer to God.

I'm learning a few things as I wade through this muck.

#1) When surrendering, it is VITAL that I be honest with the Lord about what I'm feeling.  I need to TELL HIM my awfulest, darkest thoughts as they are, not as I would have them.  So often my surrender prayers have been, "I don't want to feel this way.  I hate that I feel this way.  Please take it away" when they would have been more effective had I simply said, "I am having horrible thoughts, [detail horrible thoughts], and I truly desire to not be stuck in these horrible thoughts.  Please take them, please help my day not be overrun by these horrible thoughts."  After a major trigger on Saturday, I wasn't able to call a sponsor -or anyone, really -but I was able to lock myself in a bathroom stall and surrender and sob.  I came out and was able to be present for a family function without dwelling on or being squashed by the trigger.  Victory.

#2) Though I find courage and hope in being strong, and I loved being able to "pull myself up by the bootstraps" in years' past... I now find a new strength being offered to me.  I am a strong woman -for nine years, I've been muscling my way through living with an addict.  But that strength is superficial.  I find that I can't handle what's before me.  I can't grow money on a tree to buy a house.  I can't make the right counselor appear.  I can't help Danny at work.  I can't.  I can't!  But I can carry on, and I can carry on with hope, because GOD CAN.  THEREIN lies the greatest strength OF ALL TIME.  God has his own set of sturdy boot straps that he hoists me up in.  Today I can be reasonably happy because I CAN'T and GOD CAN.

#3) As I go through Step 4, I have found a few defects of character that are also strengths.  Where do I draw the line?  How can ask for the defects to be removed if they're also strengths?  Where's that fine line?
As I sat in the Temple on Saturday, the answer came to me so simply and clearly: when I use my character strengths for the building up of myself and my pride, they become defective.  When I use them for God, for His building up and in His service, they become my strengths.

#4) When there's a weakness that needs to be addressed, the Lord will find a way to address it.  Right now, I again need help.  I have needed more help since July than I ever have in my entire life.  My house has been cleaned, food has been brought, listening ears have been given, childcare, money... it is SO HARD for me.  So very hard.  One of my character weaknesses is control.  I am capable and therefore must and will handle everything on my very own.  Except that I can't, and being THERE and HELPING OTHERS is kind of one of the greater points of this life.  Yesterday, I fed the sister missionaries.  I signed up to feed them last month, not realizing that when the day would come, I'd be sick and cash-less.  I had some fish and some rice -not enough for the sisters AND my family, but it would be okay.  Something would work out.  My visiting teacher brought me food last night... fish and gluten free bread.  I had to smile at just how much Christ was feeding me bread and fish through one of his valiant servants.  The Lord has something for me to learn in all of this, and apparently I'm not learning it.  I hope I learn it soon... I'm working to be submissive, but I feel like such an inconvenience to so many.  An inconvenience and incapable lazy woman who isn't parenting right because she's too caught up in other stuff.  (Hello, Shame -we meet again.)

#5) This video pretty much sums up everything I'm learning and will always be learning and quite possibly will never fully grasp:

Fire

A few months ago, I was sitting in the Temple when I blessed to see in my mind's eye a block of fire.  The flames weren't wild and untamed, rather they were uniform, every angle of the square block plainly visible.  I could see myself walking toward the fire.  I entered it, and I did not thrash -I walked boldly, slowly forward.  As I did, my outer layers were burned away.  I emerged from the block of fire a shining, gleaming core of refined, precious metal.

I've often thought of that experience as I've traversed these past few months.  It was a direct message from God -sent before it was vitally necessary. 

These past few weeks have been so hard on me.  Satan is working overtime.  The Lord is making His awareness of me plainly seen -He HAS to, otherwise I'd fall.  I'd be crushed under the blackness of demons.  But God is in my life -in the details, in the decisions, in the dark of night when I'm alone, and in the brightness of day when three children look to me for validation and love.

His message is loud and clear, "I AM HERE AND I KNOW YOU INTIMATELY."
It matches Satan's exactly.

For the past few weeks, the message coming over the Sunday pulpit has been "Hasten the Work."  The Stake President is saying it, the Bishop is saying it, the Sunday School Teachers, the Relief Society teachers, and I hunker behind the piano or organ and think about what I don't have to offer.
I haven't been visiting teaching in months.
I haven't been as present for my Mom as I should be (she just had surgery on her knee).
The babysitter bathed my daughter and clipped her nails because I hadn't.
I've missed the birthdays of people I dearly care about.
I haven't sent a single package to my sister since she moved away.

The list of my failings goes on.

During these past three weeks, I have forgotten that I'm walking boldly through a block of fire.  I'm not stooping or bending or looking behind me to see if someone needs a casserole... my eyes are pressed firmly forward.  My spine straight, my shoulders back, my head up.

I can't help but feel that when the Lord sends his message of "Hasten" He is speaking directly to and about His people.  Baptisms are important, yes!  But coming fully unto Christ OURSELVES -that is hastening in it's finest form.

As I look around me, I can see many, many of the people I love dearly (but apparently forget to send cards to when they age a year) being refined with FIRE.  This isn't a slow process.  It is HASTENING.  The Lord is hastening His work and calling on His people to draw near unto Him with full hearts and purpose written upon their souls.
Many of His precious children are afflicted, and He issues an invitation to healing -His infinite incomprehensible Atonement.  The 12-step program and education on addiction have led me personally to it, line upon line.  I can choose to take it or to leave it. 
Taking it means fire.  Taking it means tears.  Taking it means burned off layers.

Taking it means LIVING.

A few months ago, a sweet brother stood at the pulpit and tied his pornography addiction into the message of his talk.
And there before me stood a MAN, a man on fire, a man shedding layers, a living breathing Adam -his progress hastening before my very eyes.

The Lord has a job for each of us to do, and He will prepare us in His precious fire, in His own precious time.

I can rest in the Lord, knowing that I am being hastened.
I have chosen to live.

What Might Have Been

  

via zazzle.com

How many times have I been triggered by "what might have been?"  Countless times.  How many times have a shed tears thinking about the marriage I thought we should have had... how many times?
I was triggered by this a few months ago and ended up in the Mother's Lounge with tears streaming down my face.
Triggers are so slealthy.  I wish I could plan my bad days so they wouldn't coincide with things like church and mascara.
I'm sure I'll still be triggered by it sometime in the future.
BUT.
The time that passes between each trigger is getting longer, and the lessons learned between each meltdown are getting more poignant, more sacred, more precious...

I appreciate all of you so much.  I wish we weren't separated by miles and anonymity.  And I even wish we could all meet up and just look into each other's eyes and feel the love and concern we all have for one another... I'm not talking just about the spouses of addicts -I'm talking about the addicts.  The addicts that blog have given me so much.  I've learned so much and felt so much.  Their honesty has made my heart swell with compassion.  Their anger has widened my sense of empathy.  I KNOW anger.  I appreciate honesty.
I feel like the ugly blue Avatar people, "I see you..."

In a recent post by someone battling addiction, he wondered if it were necessary for wives to go through this (being married to someone with a sexual addiction).  And I walked away from the computer wondering.  I can't tell you how much some of your posts make me THINK, people.  I start digging through my soul, picking at my brain, asking question after question after question and coming to all sorts of starting realizations.

Have I mentioned how badly I'd like to hug you all?
I would.

When I first hit my rock bottom, I felt prompted to talk to my oldest bother.  At this point, I hadn't told anyone in my family though I live within a few miles of a bunch of them (parents included).  The thought of opening up to someone seemed extremely daunting, but at the same time, it also felt extremely imperative.  Once my Father in Heaven whispered the name of my brother in my ear, I got out of that empty bathtub, wiped the tears off my eyes, and walked out the front door.
My husband stood behind me, hunched and scared.  "Are you coming back?" He asked, softly.
"I don't know," I answered.
My brother wasn't home, but it was Sunday afternoon so I knew where he was.
Grandma's house.  I pulled into her drive, walked in the house and prayed that the acting skills I'd honed in high school would kick into full gear.
"Hey, there's something going on with my car," I said to my brother, "Would you mind taking a look really quick?"
"Sure," he followed me outside -it wasn't an untoward request. He's a mechanic, just like Dad.
Once we stepped outside, my voice began to shake, "There's nothing wrong with the car, can we go somewhere and talk?"
I'd never talked to my brother like this before -ever.  I mean, I don't think we'd ever hugged or said, "I love you" more than MAYBE 5 times... it just isn't how our family functions.
We went to his empty house, and I melted down.  I told him everything.  I didn't ask my husband's permission to talk about it.  I just DID because I needed to.  After 6 years, I had to talk to someone for ME.

My brother is an amazing man.  Most men are amazing in their own way.
He testified to me about the Atonement, about the power of change, about the miracle of the Savior's sacrifice.
And he cried.  He broke down and cried.
My brother never cries.  The last time I saw him cry was the month after he lost his 9-month beautiful blue-eyed daughter (who looked SO much like him) to a heart condition.  Before that?  Well, he cried when he read Arizona law and found out it was illegal to own an armadillo in our state.  He was 12.
But that day, he was crying.  He wasn't crying about his sweet baby girl, but he was crying because he'd seen the power of real change -the power of change of heart -in a man he'd taught on his mission.  And then he said something I'll never, ever -in all my eternal life -forget.
The tears were gone from his eyes as he said, "I'm scared to think where my testimony would have been if I hadn't lost my daughter."
What?
That's exactly what I said, "What?"
"I thought was I doing good," he said, "We did scriptures every night, church every Sunday, Family Home Evening every week, I prayed, we prayed as a family, I served a mission... but I wasn't anywhere near where I needed to be spiritually.  I used to be afraid of death, of losing my wife of kids -but I'm not anymore.  It happened, and I'm fine.  It's given me more to live for.  If my wife dies, I'll be okay.  If another one of my kids dies, I'll be okay.  It won't be easy, but it will be okay.  I know that now.  I wish I could transfer what I know to people, but I can't.  They have to feel it for themselves to know it."
And then he gave me a blessing that carried me through the next few months of my life.
Obviously, I DID go back home...

And since reading Warrior's blog post, I've been wondering to myself, "WAS this necessary?  If so, why?"
My answer -I'm certain -is personal to me.  It's not a blanket answer that applies to everyone in this situation.
But my answer is -without a doubt -YES.

I could have gone through life without being married to an addict, but I would have never discovered the overpowering effect of fear in my life.
Do you know how disgusting it is to look back on 27 years of life and chalk SO much of my negative experiences off to FEAR?
Fear of others.
Fear of failure.
Fear.
Fear.
Fear.
It makes me want to tear my hair out!  But I'm AWARE now.  Fear will NOT rule the rest of my life.  It will not ROB me of living!
I would have never learned that without my husband's addiction.  I would have never learned myself, come to discover my core, my center, myself...

I would have lived a half-life, content to medicate with chick flicks and brownies.  I would have lived a Life of Coping.

I would have spent my days living as a victim -no matter the situation -because that's how I've always lived my life.

I would have spent my life unable to expand my ability to love: love myself, love others, love the Lord.  Mine would have been a life of sarcasm, criticisms, jealousy.

Could I have been brought to these realizations another way?  Sure, probably.  But I can't envision a trial so all-encompassing so as to bring each of these to my realization at once.  They would have come slowly, through several different trials, and thank GOODNESS they came right now.
I'm 27.  There's still time for me to have children without fear, to teach my children to live without fear... to show them how to experience life without shame, without victimization...

This is the trial I want.  This is the trial I am grateful for.

Because of this trial, I was able to take my lanky, white farm girl self to a zumbathon on Friday night and dance with about 40 other people and truly enjoy it.
I went in my track pants (which were covered in spots of flour from the sugar cookies the kids and I made).  No make-up.  My hair was thrown into the messiest mess of a pony tail... and I had a blast.
I took my kids with me -one bounced around will all the confidence in the world.  The other?  Looked up at me with his big, fearful eyes and said, "Mom, I just want to watch."
Oh, how it made my heart ache.  I KNOW that feeling.
And now I know that the only thing worse that putting yourself out there is the feeling of regret that comes when you sit on the sidelines.
"The rule is... you have to try," I said to him, "You always have to at least try."
Thirty minute later, he was down on the ground doing kick spins and making laps around the ladies trying to dance.
As we drove home he said, "Mom, I fink I have mad skills."

And I smiled.
I felt the exact same way... I had danced with almost no inhibitions, no thought of what others were thinking of me and old tennis shoes and stiff country limbs.  I'm usually plagued with overwhelming fear and worry and so I just... don't participate.  don't go.  don't LIVE.

Fear is losing power in my life.

My "What Might Have Been" Life is looking less like a glorified missed opportunity and much MORE like a bullet dodged.

Does it hurt?  suck?  make me cry?  Yes.
But I WANT it.
Maybe I'm a masochist at heart?  Maybe we all are to some extent... except we don't enjoy the pain.  We just enjoy the sweet, healing, miraculous powers of the Atonement.
It makes us want our trials.

It makes us scared to think where we might have been without them.