It has been a wonderful Easter! Rob (my sweet hubby) got called to be in the Elder's Quorm Presidency. We got to go to the temple last night and as we sat there, I thought of my feelings about the savior. As you know this journey of mine has brought me closer to the savior than I have been for a long time. To try and put into words how I feel, is hard, but I will try.
I started really trying to make the savior real when I was in High School. I remember seeing the movie Lamb of God, and it stirred in me those feelings of being close to him. It made him real to me. Then I had an AMAZING seminary teacher that really brought Christ to life the year we studied the New Testament. I was a sophomore. He helped me imagine Christ as a real person. I became closer to Christ that year and he became my friend and companion.
As I grew into adulthood and started to question things, and make my own choices, I knew no matter what there were two things I could never deny. #1 I had a Heavenly Father who perfectly created me and loved me. #2 I had a Savior who Loved me and died for me. Even in the depths of some pretty ugly times in my life, I couldn't deny these truths.
When I was 21 I decided to rededicate myself to the gospel, and truly be converted. I wanted to make sure that what I said I believed, I KNEW and could say without question that I had a testimony.
I read my scriptures, prayed, started attending church every week, and took religion classes. I felt the spirit carry me out of the situation I had gotten myself into and back on the straight and narrow.
It was a long and sometimes painful journey as I righted some serious wrongs and cleaned up my life. The whole time I knew my Savior was helping me. The Atonement was real in my life.
A year later as I had my Gastric Bypass and was in a weak place physically, He again carried me and lifted me. There were times I would think "What have I gotten myself into?!" The pain would be hard and I knew I had someone on my team who knew all the pain I had.
Then I got married, got complacent, and distanced myself from the Lord. It wasn't on purpose, but there were things in my life I felt made me unworthy of his company. It was a hard time that lasted Years, through pregnancies, and it was hard on my marriage to not have that bond with Christ. I felt something was missing.
When I had Sawyer Prematurely and went through so much physically myself, Christ came to heal my heart. This is an excerpt I wrote from the hospital "I am grateful to my savior who died for me that I can be imperfect and gain forgiveness. I am grateful he is here to share my burden and carry me through this. I am so in awe of his sacrifice as I sit here in so much pain, that this is nothing compared to what he went through and he still did it for each and every one of us." The pain I experienced with Sawyer was Unbearable. I remember the nurses telling me I had hit my morphine button 87 times in 1 hour. Whatever they were giving me wasn't strong enough because I was still in SO MUCH PAIN. It was horrible. TO know that Christ felt that and knew what I was going through was SUCH a comfort.
During my pregnancy with Amelia, I really worked to gain that close relationship back with Christ. I took care of all the things I felt were holding me back, and we went back to the temple. I found my Food Addiction group and that was truly the missing piece to my story.
I am reminded daily that I am not in control. That my Savior is here to make up what I lack. I am not perfect and I can't live this life without him. By following him, and his example, I can do all things. I am not perfect, but through the atonement I can share Christ's perfection. He is truly the way the truth and the light. He will carry our burden if we just ask him to. All we have to do is ask.
There are two stories I just love that express what I love about the savior.
In
that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There
were no distinguishing features save for the one wall covered with small
index-card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by
author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from
floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very
different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my
attention was one that read "Girls I Have Liked." I opened it and
began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I
recognized the names written on each one.
And
then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with
its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the
actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't
match.
A
sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I
began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and
sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look
over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named
"Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I Have Betrayed."
The
titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have
Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I Have Given,"
"Jokes I Have Laughed At." Some were almost hilarious in their
exactness: "Things I've Yelled at My Brothers." Others I couldn't
laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My Anger," "Things I Have
Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by
the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer
than I hoped.
I
was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be
possible that I had the time in my 20 years to write each of these thousands or
even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in
my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.
When
I pulled out the file marked "Songs I Have Listened To," I realized
the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and
yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it,
shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of
time I knew that file represented.
When
I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run
through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its
size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to
think that such a moment had been recorded.
An
almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one
must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy
them!" In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter
now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and
began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became
desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I
tried to tear it
Defeated
and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead
against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The
title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With." The handle was
brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and
a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count
the cards it contained on one hand.
And
then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt started in my
stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of
shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled
in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock
it up and hide the key.
But
then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh,
anyone but Jesus.
I
watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't
bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at
His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the
worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one?
Finally
He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in
His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered
my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm
around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just
cried with me.
Then
He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the
room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on
each card.
"No!"
I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I
pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it
was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine.
It was written with His blood.
He
gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I
don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant
it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed
His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished."
I
stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There
were still cards to be written.
My Big Brother
When I was just a small child, I had a favorite big brother. He was great to me. He'd put his big arm around me and we'd go scampering down some cool dirt path. At times like this I felt ten feet tall. He didn't seem to mind me tagging along one bit, and there was nothing I liked better.
I was so proud of him! When I was with him I felt like I was beaming stronger than the sun. He was good at everything. I never could seem to match the mountains he made out of sand. Mine always seemed to crumble and sag, but his would stand as firm as the Rocky Mountains.
Dad always tried not to show how proud he was of him...him being the oldest and all, but his smile always seemed to be a bit brighter when my big brother came around.
I felt that my world had collapsed when he went on his mission. Dad and Mom both had to fight back the tears. He called Dad and Mom regularly and let us know how much he loved us. He even told us about how great his mission was, so Mom wouldn't worry.
The persecution was really bad there as the church was just getting started. But he never seemed to let himself get down, even though the people wouldn't believe his message. We'd all share in his joy when he'd get some new converts, but I don't mind saying that I was scared that the nonbelievers would do something to him. It even got to the point where men were plotting to take his life. But Dad never seemed to be worried for some reason.
Then one day we received word that his mission had ended, but not as most men's do. I was struck by the terrifying news.
They finally got hold of my brother. The big brother that I had played with. The one who never seemed capable of doing anything wrong. My big brother who loved everyone he knew, and who most everyone loved.
They beat him and mocked him. He suffered all they did to him without striking back. Why would anyone want to hurt my big brother? I couldn't understand.
A mob took him to a hill just outside of town, and spitting on him, they nailed him alive to a cross. My soul moaned as I heard that he begged father to forgive them. Racked with unbearable pain, he gave up his life for what he believed. My big brother, my king, my idol was dead. I cried though what seemed to be the darkest day of my life. Where was my big brother with whom I had shaped mountains of sand? Why did he of all my brothers have to die like this?
Time passed and I was called on my mission. Sometimes I forget what happened so long ago, but every Sunday a small piece of bread and a small cup of water remind me of what my big brother did for me and assures me that he yet lives.
Author Unknown
When I was just a small child, I had a favorite big brother. He was great to me. He'd put his big arm around me and we'd go scampering down some cool dirt path. At times like this I felt ten feet tall. He didn't seem to mind me tagging along one bit, and there was nothing I liked better.
I was so proud of him! When I was with him I felt like I was beaming stronger than the sun. He was good at everything. I never could seem to match the mountains he made out of sand. Mine always seemed to crumble and sag, but his would stand as firm as the Rocky Mountains.
Dad always tried not to show how proud he was of him...him being the oldest and all, but his smile always seemed to be a bit brighter when my big brother came around.
I felt that my world had collapsed when he went on his mission. Dad and Mom both had to fight back the tears. He called Dad and Mom regularly and let us know how much he loved us. He even told us about how great his mission was, so Mom wouldn't worry.
The persecution was really bad there as the church was just getting started. But he never seemed to let himself get down, even though the people wouldn't believe his message. We'd all share in his joy when he'd get some new converts, but I don't mind saying that I was scared that the nonbelievers would do something to him. It even got to the point where men were plotting to take his life. But Dad never seemed to be worried for some reason.
Then one day we received word that his mission had ended, but not as most men's do. I was struck by the terrifying news.
They finally got hold of my brother. The big brother that I had played with. The one who never seemed capable of doing anything wrong. My big brother who loved everyone he knew, and who most everyone loved.
They beat him and mocked him. He suffered all they did to him without striking back. Why would anyone want to hurt my big brother? I couldn't understand.
A mob took him to a hill just outside of town, and spitting on him, they nailed him alive to a cross. My soul moaned as I heard that he begged father to forgive them. Racked with unbearable pain, he gave up his life for what he believed. My big brother, my king, my idol was dead. I cried though what seemed to be the darkest day of my life. Where was my big brother with whom I had shaped mountains of sand? Why did he of all my brothers have to die like this?
Time passed and I was called on my mission. Sometimes I forget what happened so long ago, but every Sunday a small piece of bread and a small cup of water remind me of what my big brother did for me and assures me that he yet lives.
Author Unknown
I love my Big Brother, My Savior, My advocate with the father, my friend. I am so glad he was willing to die for me. I am grateful that he is willing to lift me still. I am grateful that by his grace he makes up what I lack. I am grateful that he stands and knocks and JUST Keeps KNOCKING, waiting for us to let him in. Most of all I am grateful that he lives and because He lives, I will live again too.
