Getting "UNdiscouraged": 6 things you can do when discouragement hits

Check out my Hi Five Live video this was based on HERE!!

************************

Discouragement comes to all of us.

I know I've had my share over the past year. 

Most of the discouragement has come from not-so-good things. 

Like getting a cracked tooth pulled and having my face swell up.

And then a week later getting bitten by a cat I was trying to save, getting an infection, and spending a few days in the hospital fighting it.

Some discouragement comes from good things too. In December I was called as an early morning seminary teacher. It was wonderful but challenging.

Then my mom got sick this spring and passed away this summer.

Oh yes, and we can't forget the Covid-19 world-wide pandemic and riots and the election year.

It's safe to say this has been a trying 11 months for me.

Discouragement has become an unwanted friend of mine.

But, I've learned a few things that have helped me when it comes, a few things that I've learned that help me become "undiscouraged." And, assuming you're human and you experience discouragement too, I thought I'd share.

#1 Take care of yourself

Often times when I'm discouraged it's because my bucket is dry--I am totally worn out. Sometimes it's due to my choices. I often put the needs of others first and forget my own. I will also eat things that aren't the best, stay up too late, or waste time during the day then berate myself for it. 

Other times I don't have a choice because circumstances demand my attention, energy, and efforts at a pace I can't keep up with.

Regardless of the why, when I neglect myself, discouragement easily follows.

Yet, it's hard to stop and give myself what I need.

This is why I love the story of Elijah in 1 Kings 19. It's where I get the "juniper" name in my blog from.

See, Elijah was a powerful prophet. He showed up on the scene, sealed the heavens, performed miracles, had the sealing power (the last one to hold the sealing keys before Jesus Christ came), and made royalty really mad. In fact, they wanted to kill him.

So he ran an entire day for his life. He wore himself out. That night he laid under a juniper tree and "requested for himself that he might die; and said, It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life.

That's some deep, deep discouragement.

He falls asleep, presumably hoping to not wake up. An angel woke him up. He didn't lecture him, give him advice, power, or even a pep talk. He simply said, "Arise and eat."  Then he showed Elijah a cake that was baking on the fire. Read that again: THE ANGEL MADE ELIJAH A CAKE!!!  Cake is LITERALLY Heaven's answer to feeling bad.

Elijah ate the cake (like a good man) and drank some water, then went back to sleep. The angel came to him a second time and said, "Arise and eat; because the journey is too great for thee." 

Elijah had a long way to go and the angel knew (which means God knew) that what he needed to feel better and accomplish his tasks was to take care of himself. 

This is not a singular event. When Alma met Amulek, he tarried at his house and rested before going back out to preach. The Lord let Lehi and his family rest in Bountiful for years before they continued their journey. 

Taking care of ourselves is not only important and even necessary, but it is divinely suggested and condoned.

I find that when I'm feeling discouraged, I can often become undiscouraged by doing something that fills my bucket. It's usually something like taking a nap, resting better at night, eating healthier, getting outside, reading my scriptures, serving someone else, writing for fun, and yes, totally eating cake. Especially free cake. And especially angel cake. (Come on, I couldn't pass that up.)

#2  Release emotions

My mom had a few strokes and heart "episodes" in May, so when things took a turn for the worse in July, we knew we weren't going to have her much longer.

I flew down to California to be with her. She passed away five days later. Those five days were hard. Covid restrictions kept us from her until she moved into the ICU. Then, after an initial wave of small groups saying goodbye, we weren't allowed to be with her until they moved her downstairs to comfort/hospice care. And even then it was only one visitor at a time.

Mom rallied those first few days. I said a final heartwrenching goodbye, then she'd improve. Then she'd decline and I'd go and say goodbye again. After the third "final goodbye" the disappointment and grief had nearly consumed me.

I had kept everything in as I was one of the supports for my dad and my brothers. I wanted to be strong. So, I pushed it all down. Until my discouragement grew too large.

In this instant, cake wouldn't help. Heaven knew I'd been eating a steady diet of cookies for days.

What I needed was to release the emotions.

After a family meeting where my dad discussed the next steps, I ducked out of the house, got in my rental car, and drove to an empty parking lot. And I cried. I screamed. I hit the steering wheel. I let it all out for over an hour.

Then the tears dried up and I felt a sense of strength and peace return.

I went home to my dad. Not more than five minutes later we got the call that it was time again to say goodbye. I was able to be there in the background as my nieces and nephews said goodbye to their grandma. And because I'd released that emotion--not the sorrow or grief, but the weight and force of the emotion I'd kept inside--I was able to lovingly smile and support them in those very tender and hard moments.

Then, the next night, I said my final final goodbye. And she was gone, off to a family reunion of epic proportion.

Sometimes our emotions can build up and we become human pressure cookers and we need to release the pressure before we explode.

That might come in tears and screams, hitting inanimate objects, running hard, writing it out, or spilling your guts to a friend. Whatever works, do it. Because it does work, and you'll feel better.

 

#3 Remind yourself what you know

Discouragement is a suffocater. It takes hold of what we know, squeezes it, and pushes it aside to make room for all the things that make us sad, tired, and afraid.

It also loves to feed lies. Maybe we aren't worthy of happiness or love. Things will never work out. I won't ever get head. If God loved me, He wouldn't let me hurt this way or allow this to happen to me. Life is fair for everyone else, but mt.

When discouragement comes, it will do us good to remind us what we know.

I love the example of this in the Book of Mormon. The prophet Nephi had seen and done amazing things, and yet, he experienced discouragement too. In fact, he recorded on such time in 2 Nephi chapter 4.

He laments: "Why should my heart weep and my soul linger in the valley of sorrow, and my flesh waste away, and my strength slacken because of my afflictions? And why should I yield to sin because of my flesh? Yea, why should I give way to temptations?  Why am I angry because of my enemy?"

That is some major discouragement there.

But I love what he does next. He doesn't allow himself to stay there. He doesn't feed those thoughts.  "Awake my soul!" he says. Basically, snap out of it!

Then he reminds himself of what he knows is true: Lord, I have trusted you, and I will forever. I know that you give to your children, and you will give good things to me.

When discouragement starts discoloring the good things in your life or feeding you lies, stop and remind yourself what you know. 

God is real. 

He loves you. 

He is with you. 

This will pass, and if it doesn't He will help you. 

The Atonement is real and can work in your life. 

Things WILL get better.

You will smile again.

#4 Keep discouragement with its owner

I have a friend with a bunch of kids. They throw the clean laundry in a pile and the kids pull out their own clothes. Often they will grab a brother's pair of pants or a sister's shorts because it either looks like theirs or happens to be next to what they are grabbing. What ends up happening then is clothes belonging to one person living in the dresser of another--where it doesn't belong.

Discouragement loves to spread its wings. When one thing discourages you, it's easy for it to spill into other areas--to go where it doesn't belong.

You get a demotion at work and come home to a house that's messy. The disappointment from your work now widens and you're disappointed in your home. Next it might be your family, your appearance, God, or yourself.

When you feel discouraged and you see it spreading across your life, take some time to pinpoint where the discouragement started. Then try to compartmentalize it there. Remind yourself that it's okay to be disappointed in one are and happy in others at the same time. :)

#5 Give it to the Lord so He can give you what you need

Sometimes feelings of disappointment can drive us away from God. That is the worst thing we can allow it to do.

The Lord loves. He wants to help us, and if we let Him, He will give us the individual care and assistance we need to deal with our disappointment.

When Jesus received the news of the death of His dear friend Lazarus, He traveled to his home and was met with one of Lazarus' sisters, Martha. (as found in John 11)

She ran to meet Him saying, "Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died."

Jesus responded with the assurance that her brother will rise again. Then He spent a few moments teaching Martha of eternal things.

Then the other sister, Mary, came to Jesus and greeted Him the same way: "Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died."

Except, the Savior didn't respond to Mary the same way. As Mary wept, Jesus wept with her.

To one sister He gave hope and learning, to other He gave love and empathy.

Both sisters were experiencing the same thing--the death of their brother. And yet, both had different needs. And the Savior gave each one what they needed. 

This is what God and Jesus do--they give us what They know we need. They know us intimately and want to give us hope and learning and love and empathy and companionship and strength and ALLLLL the things we need to deal with or overcome our discouragement. 

But, as the sister did, we need to bring our sorrow, worry, fears, and frustrations to Them.

So, when you're feeling discouragement in all its forms, give it to the Lord, and let Him give you what you need.

#6 Wait it out in faith

Sometimes we can do all of the above things and the discouragement is still there. Sometimes immediate relief simply isn't possible. 

So, what do we do then??

We wait in faith.

I love the movie "Cast Away" with Tom Hanks. Hank's character is on a Fed X plan that crashes on a deserted island in the ocean. He's alone for four years, with only a small photo of his fiance and one still-unopened package to deliver to give him hope. Finally, the wind brings him something he can use as a sail, and he's able to get his man-made boat over the currents surrounding the island and floats out to sea where he's picked up and rescued.

He returns home to find his fiance married to another man because she thought he had died. The world is different. He is different. 

As he tries to grapple with the adjustment and diminishing hope, a friend asks Hanks what he will do now.

This is his response: 

(on the island) "I had power over nothing* And that's when this feeling came over me like a warm blanket. I knew, somehow, that I had to stay alive. Somehow. I had to keep breathing. Even though there was no reason to hope. And all my logic said that I would never see this place again. So that's what I did. I stayed alive. I kept breathing. And one day my logic was proven all wrong because the tide came in, and gave me a sail. And now, here I am. I'm back. In Memphis, talking to you. I have ice in my glass... And I've lost her all over again. I'm so sad that I don't have Kelly. But I'm so grateful that she was with me on that island. And I know what I have to do now. I gotta keep breathing. Because tomorrow the sun will rise. Who knows what the tide could bring?”

Sometimes, when we have to wait for things to get better, to feel better, all we can do is keep breathing. And hold onto the hope that the tide will bring something in.

This, to me, is what Sariah, Lehi's wife, did in the Book of Mormon.

She left her extended family, the home she'd created, her friends, and followed her husband, a prophet, into the wilderness. After three weeks of traveling, they stopped to camp, and the Lord sent her sons back to Jerusalem on a dangerous mission.

When they hadn't returned, Sariah began to feel very discouraged. She feared her sons were dead, and (because discouragement doesn't like to be alone) she began to doubt.

Lehi did his best to console her. Sariah chose to wait in hope. And her sons did return!

And when they did, her discouragement was replaced with stronger faith and gratitude.

Still, it must have been hard for her to wait.

I know waiting in hope is hard for me.

It might be for you.

We want to feel better now, for things to get better and. Sometimes they can and do, and sometimes, we simply have to be patient and wait in hope until they do. Keep breathing in and out. Because we never know what the tide will bring in tomorrow.

So, those are six of the things I do to get undiscouraged.

What do you do the help you fight discouragement when it comes knocking at your door?

Messpirational

Way-too-long-vulnerable post warning ahead:

I have a new term: messpiration. 

I discovered it this weekend when I thought I broke. 

As many of you know, one of the things I do is write and speak on inspirational topics for women. I am all about perspective and choice laughter and the power of will and resilience and God. 

This can be a tricky thing, for teaching about inspiration and empowerment means I know a lot about it. And in my mind, I equate knowledge with performance. If I know these things, then I shouldn’t struggle with them. 

But I do. 

Not all the time. But I sometimes I do. 

Sometimes I wonder if I am enough. I wonder if I’ve failed my kids. I wonder what people think of me. I hurt and doubt and am afraid.

Then I beret myself because I feel like I should know better, and this means I should do better. I should think and feel better. 

I do. But sometimes I don’t. 

So then I feel like a fraud. How can I advocate and inspire when I feel like this way? How can I have anything to offer when I have moments of struggle myself? Why can’t I keep it all together all the time?

I was talking to a friend the other day and I said, “You know, after all this time studying and writing and speaking, I’ve realized something. I’m a mess.”

I love a perfect God and His perfect plan and principles. But, man do I trip all over them. I love hope but sometimes I lose it. I hate fear but sometimes I cling to it. I trust Him but sometimes I get frustrated and impatient. I understand I have control over my reactions, but sometimes I want to ram my car into the guy in front of me who cut me off (just a tap, really.) Damn slips from my lips too often and I love sleeping in and eating ice cream for breakfast. I think waaaay to much and over analyze everything-except the dumb things I do and say without thinking at all. I’m complicated and messy. 

Circumstances were a bit challenging and I dipped pretty low this past weekend. The weight of fear and pain pushed my thoughts down. I began to doubt my contribution to my family, my church, my writing and speaking. How can I help anyone when I feel so broken? (I have soooo many thoughts on “broken”, but that’s for another long-winded post.)

I was bemoaning my state of messiness to my daughter who, after listening to me whine and cry said, “So, you’re human then?”

I suppose I am. Very much so. 

You won’t find anything close to perfection here. I’m no example.

But, I believe in God and what He can do for and with me. I get excited when I think about progression and problem-solving and who we really are and second and third and thousandths chances. I love that the Savior gets me and has the power to ease my pain and strengthen me if I let Him. I love laughter and cookie dough and organizing. I love to make people happy. And I love real. 

So often we see people trying to inspire us with perfect appearances and programs (for a small price). They post their best as proof their answers will solve all your problems too. 

But here’s what I’ve discovered. We are all a mess. Even them. And anyone who tells you differently is trying to sell you something. Sometimes literally. 

We buy into the idea that happiness and joy are the “right” places and if we feel anything other than complete faith and serenity somehow it’s wrong and we are deficient. Pain and struggle have turned into sources of shame. We see them as weaknesses, proof we can’t cut it. Proof we aren’t enough. 

Look, life sometimes is really hard. It’s messy. And we struggle. This is part of our experience. We don’t wallow in it, glorify it, or use it for attention. But we shouldn’t be ashamed of it either. Pain is pain. It’s not our enemy or our friend. What we do with it is.

I’m almost always happy, but when I’m not, I’m really not. 

In my lowest moment this weekend after I had cried on the shoulder of my 21-year-old daughter, I looked at her and said, “I want you to remember this moment- the moment your mom broke.” 

She nodded. 

Then I said, “And I want you to remember what I’m going to do next.”

She nodded. 

“I’m going I let you help me today. I’m going to wipe my tears. I’m going to seek God’s help because there is some pain that only He can lessen and some strength only He can give. And I’m going to chose to be okay.” Then I smiled and got up. 

Even though I’m a mess, I’m going to continue to teach and write inspirational stuff because I believe in Who I’m teaching and writing about. I’m not an inspirational person. I’m messpirational. And I like it. And I love Him. 

So, why share all this? And why post this pic of me that’s not smiling and joyous? Why not keep such personal matters to myself?

Because I hurt still. It’s getting better- but there’s still a struggle to be had. And maybe you’re hurt or are struggling too. And because I hope we can still believe that we all have something to give even when we feel like we are small and broken. 

I don’t think we need to be happy and perfect all the time to contribute or inspire. I just think we just need to be real about it all. Life is hard and wonderful and painful and lovely and scary and fantastic. 

We don’t need to bask in the low times, allowing our struggle to define our capacity or value. Acknowledge it. Accept it. And move on with it. Wipe our tears. Let others help. And choose to keep going. 

I choose to believe we all have something to offer, in happiness and pain, in joy and sorrow. 

I believe we are all messpirational.

The power of "could" (A.K.A Stop "shoulding" all over yourself.)

7th grade me, at the start of my educational decline.

Sometimes I feel really smart. Other times not so much.

I didn’t graduate from high school. I skipped classes, got bad grades, and hid behind humor. I got my GED two years later. I’ve gone to bits of college here and there but no degree. I’ve had jobs here and there throughout the years but no career.

For a long time I felt unsmart--stupid.

Writing has made me feel smart, made me realize I actually have something in my brain.

Most times I am okay, really. I understand that formal education doesn't translate directly to intelligence. I've met plenty of college graduations that can't think for themselves.

But, still, there are times when I feel dumb. And I HATE FEELING DUMB.

Case in point, a while ago I went on a job interview. I was nailing it. Eye contact, solid answers, confident smile. I had it in the bag.

Then, right in the middle and out of the blue, the interviewer says the worst possible thing could say, "We are going to have a math test."

Huh? First of all, what's this we? Is he going to take it with me? And second of all, a math test? Who gives a math test in an interview?

That guy does.

I felt sick. I never made it past Algebra 1 in school. Math is my kryptonite, right next to liquid eyeliner and cleaning the bathroom.

He smiles and says, “If you receive an invoice for $3248.56, which includes a tax of 0.917%, how much would the total of just the bill be?"

People. I froze.

I didn’t know how to do it. 

Not only was it a dumb question, but I felt like a dumb person. 

Time slowed down.

I stared at the calculator in my hand, then to him, then back down to my calculator. 

My mind was blank. Nothing. 

I punched some random numbers hoping the answer would magically appear, but nothing came.

I felt embarrassed, ashamed. Humiliated.

Stupid.

That wasn’t his intent. Numbers are a big part of the job.

Still.

I wanted to cry right there.

I really wanted to slide out of my chair and sneak out the door. Though, he may have noticed a skirt-clad woman doing the army crawl across the floor.

The was another gentleman on the interview panel. I glanced up at him, hoping he couldn't see me dying inside. 

My nearly tearing up eyes rested on the calculator in my hand one last time as I prepared myself for what I'd have to say next.

I looked up at the interviewer, breathed in courage, swallowed a huge slice of humble pie, and with a wide said, “I’m sorry. I can’t recall the specific formula. But that’s okay, because this is the perfect time for me to show you how honest I am when there is something I need help with, and what a fast learner I am as well.”

He laughed and offered to write the problem out for me. Once the equation was in front of me, the old brain kicked in and I knew how to solve it.

Now, I could stop here and talk about how we can take difficult moments and make something good out of them. Or I could talk about how our "control room"--that place we go in the time between what happens to us and how we respond, that I shared in my second book.

But I'm not. Not yet.

I wasn't thinking about any of that stuff. In fact, I cried the entire way home.

I’m 46. And I felt like a 15-year-old in high school again. Embarrassed. Stupid. Small.

And it stung.

The next day I received an email from the guy. He invited back for a second interview. His manager wanted to meet me.

Really?

I was stunned. I thought my embarrassingly obvious ineptitude had sealed my fate.

But it didn't.

I never found out why they wanted me back because I never went to the second interview. I took another job offer instead which, luckily, had me teaching special needs children--something I love doing that, luckily, doesn't require algebraic skills.

That moment in the interview, for me, was a seminal moment in my life. It was a moment I faced deep shame and regret and didn't give it power over me.

I took the power away from shame and regret.

I took the power and changed it into something good.

Even if I'd never been called back for another interview, I feel like I succeeded.

I still harbor some negative feelings about my educational past. I know I made mistakes. I wish I would have made better choices. But I cannot let regret keep me from progress.  You know the saying, "life is full of should-of-dones", right?

Well, I think I am tired of shoulding all over myself.

I loved that moment in the interview--the moment courage stepped past fear and doubt. The moment I could be confident when all the "evidence" proved otherwise. The moment I took control of who I was and want to be.

Yes, I should have taken school seriously. I should have had more confidence in myself. I should have gone to college after high school. I should have gotten my degeree.

Should.

Should.

Should.

See, shoulding on myself is easy.

But, I don't want to do that anymore. I need to stop shoulding all over myself. It stinks.

In that moment in the interview, I had to walk past should and grab hold of could.

I want to keep doing that.

I could go back to school now and get a degree. I could study worldly topics at home. Or I could simply realize I am really smart, even if I don't.

Could.

Could.

Could.

I like could. It's a nice word, filled with possibilities.

Could.

No regret or shame.

Could.

It's hope and choices and potential.

I could do so many wonderful things if I leave my should where it belongs: in the outhouse with the rest of the crap.

And I think I will.

Lucy's hands: Why God sometimes allows us to suffer.

(Excerpt from "Does This Insecurity Make Me Look Fat?")

Photo of Lucy’s hands courtesy of Kimberly Robinson

Do you ever wonder why we must endure some of the burdens we are asked to bear?

             I used to ask, “Why?” until a young mother’s example answered the question for me.

One Sunday, I was walking down the hallway to teach my class of five-year-olds when a sister in the hall stopped me. She told me that Lucy, the sweet, almost one-year-old daughter of a friend of mine, had been taken to the hospital. No one knew exactly what had happened, only that Lucy had been hurt.

By the end of our Sunday meetings, most of the congregation had been made aware of the situation. Meals were scheduled to be taken to the home. Care for Lucy’s older brother had been arranged. Prayers had already been whispered. Some tears had already been shed.

Through phone calls and visits, we learned what had happened. Lucy had been playing on the floor as her family had been getting ready for church. They had just moved into a new home, and Lucy was exploring the new family room. She was just beginning to walk and would often hold on to furniture and other things to help herself stand. This particular morning, Lucy crawled over to the gas fireplace and pulled herself to a standing position, leaning her full weight on her small hands as they pressed into the hot glass. The heat was intense, but Lucy was too young to realize that the palms of her hands were burning. She simply stood there, leaning against the hot glass pane for several seconds until her mother saw her and ran across the room.

Lucy’s quick-thinking parents immediately sought medical care. It was a long day of tears, doctors, praying, and waiting.

After a few days in the hospital, Lucy was able to come home. My husband and I paid the family a visit. Lucy was already in bed, and we sat with her parents, Matt and Stephanie, who were understandably exhausted. As we listened to them retell their experience, I was moved by their faith in the face of this adversity. My heart ached when they told me of the pain and suffering Lucy had experienced. I thought to myself how grateful I was that the ordeal was over—Lucy was home now, safe and warm in bed.

Then her mother told me about Lucy’s recovery process.

The doctors had performed skin grafts to save her hands. Then, to protect them as they healed, her hands and arms were wrapped up to the elbows.  During the healing process, the palms of Lucy’s hands would need to be stretched to prevent the skin from healing too tightly. Stephanie smiled through tired, moist eyes as she explained to my husband and me that this stretching had to be done not once or twice a day but every hour.

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

The answer was a tearful “Yes, but it’s the only way for her hands to heal correctly.” If the palms weren’t stretched, the skin would not heal with enough flexibility, and Lucy would not be able to open her hands fully as she grew older.

Oh, this poor little girl! was my first thought. To endure not only such initial pain and trauma but to have to experience pain over and over again—how heartbreaking!

The following Sunday, I saw Stephanie and Lucy in the restroom at church. It was time for the hourly stretching of Lucy’s hands. I watched as Stephanie set her smiling little girl on the counter and talk softly to her. Then she gently took Lucy’s hand. Lucy recoiled and began to whimper, knowing what was about to happen. Calmly and gently, Stephanie bent Lucy’s fingers back to stretch the healing skin. Lucy cried.

Stephanie spoke the tender words of a loving parent: “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. We are almost finished. You are doing so well. Mommy’s right here. I love you.” I turned my head and looked at the floor, feeling that I was invading a private moment between mother and daughter. I was also trying to hide my tears. I was watching a painful, yet tender exchange between child and parent. But it struck me that I was also witnessing a profound representation of the relationship between me and my heavenly Parent.

There have been many times in my life when I have struggled, when I have felt tired and stretched. My prayers in my younger days had often included this plea: “Heavenly Father, how can you let this happen to me?” It was difficult for me to understand how feeling so much pain could be for my benefit. I thought that if God loved me, He would save me from such pain. But most of the time that did not happen.

Little Lucy hurt herself—even though she was not fully aware of what she was doing. She had loving parents who helped to her heal. Even though it hurt, they knew that stretching her hands would lead to full use of them in the future. Temporary pain now would lead to full recovery later. Her parents knew this, so they stretched her hands for her benefit, even though it broke their hearts to do it. Out of their deep love for their daughter and their understanding of how necessary the stretching was, they not only allowed Lucy to hurt but they willingly and lovingly acted as the instigators of the pain. It took great courage and emotional strength on their part to administer this therapy, but they did what was hard now in order to help Lucy in the long run.

It might have been easier for them to say, “No, we don’t want Lucy to hurt anymore. She’s been through enough. We want to protect her. We will not stretch her hands.” But they were looking at the situation through the eyes of loving parents. They were looking at and loving not just the little Lucy but also the Lucy of the future: Lucy the future piano player, Lucy the future mother, Lucy the future artist, Lucy with full use of her hands. They understood the difficult truth that Lucy would have to endure pain now to reach a greater potential later.

We are told that the purpose of our mortal existence is that we might have joy (see 2 Nephi 2:25), but our lives in mortality are also punctuated with all manner of trials and tribulations. During these difficult times, we might feel stretched; we might feel pain and even suffering. We might cry as Alma did, when he was bound, imprisoned, and beaten, “How long shall we suffer these great afflictions, O Lord?” (see Alma 14:26).

When we feel stretched and are suffering, we might find ourselves wishing that our Heavenly Father would say, “No, I don’t want you to hurt anymore. You’ve been through enough. I want to protect you. I will not stretch you anymore.” If that wish were granted, we would momentarily be free from pain or discomfort. We might feel relief and happiness. It might seem to be an easier way to end the trial—but we would not grow.

Alma had faith, even in the midst of his afflictions. His plea to know how long the suffering would last was followed by, “O Lord, give us strength according to our faith which is in Christ unto deliverance” (Alma 14:26).  Alma understood that faith was imperative in the face of adversity. He knew that the Lord had a purpose and a plan for him, and he looked to God for guidance and help.

Our Father in Heaven loves us dearly and perfectly. He does not find any joy in our suffering. But He is not looking at and loving us just for the present. He is also looking at and loving our future selves. He knows that sometimes healing hurts.  He knows that for us to grow, we need to be stretched. He knows that for us to become like Jesus Christ, we need to change, and sometimes change comes only through adversity.

As a loving parent himself, Alma later testified of this principle to his son. He said, “I have been supported under trials and troubles of every kind, yea, and all manner of afflictions; . . . and I do put my trust in him, and he will still deliver me” (Alma 36:27).

What a powerful example Lucy’s family was, to me and to the entire congregation, of the influence of the love of good parents—and our Heavenly Parent. It reminds me there is purpose to my suffering. It also helps me to understand that my Father in Heaven allows me to suffer because He loves me—and that it is not an easy thing for Him to allow. It gives me hope that I can be healed, that pain is only temporary. And it helps me know that my loving Heavenly Father is there for me throughout the trial and the healing.

I am reminded of the gentle words that Lucy heard from her loving mother during the painful stretching: “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. We are almost finished. You are doing so well. Mommy’s right here. I love you. You will be okay.”

Now, when I am hurting, feeling stretched, and growing, I imagine those words as an earthly echo of my Heavenly Father’s loving message to me: “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. We are almost finished. You are doing so well. I am right here, and I love you. You will be okay.” We know we are loved not because our life is easy but because He is there to help us when it is hard.

That’s the power of my favorite word: perspective.

Perspective helps us find solace in the truth that God will not give us more that we can handle with His help. Perspective helps us understand that even though we see only a piece of the big picture we can still have faith in the One who created it. Perspective assures us that we are not alone in our trials and enables us to find the purpose in our lives and in our pain.

 (Excerpt from "Does This Insecurity Make Me Look Fat?")

Tiny Little Ropes, Deafening Silence, and a Choice

I'm going to really really honest here.

I hit the ground this weekend.

I went to a place I hadn't been in years. A tough, dark place.

And as I tried to figure out how I got there, I couldn't pinpoint one or two big things. It was a combination of small things that have accumulated over the past months and some over years.

I think of Jack Black in Gulliver's Travels, lying on the beach, tied down by tiny ropes.



That's what things have felt like for me. It wasn't just one big thing that weighed me down. It was a thousand little things. Responsibilities, obligations, job, the needs of others, callings...

But, there were more ropes than those.

Expectations I put on myself. Experiences that didn't turn out like I'd hoped. People not being what I thought they were. Me not being what I thought I should be. Getting hurt. Perceived failures...

A thousand tiny ropes that, in of themselves individually couldn't hold me down, but collectively had the power to take me to the ground.

Over the past couple of weeks I've had a few more ropes added to the bunch. Not big ones, but just enough to give all the ropes the strength to pull me down.

And down I went. Hard.

I could feel myself going down, and I decided I wasn't going down without a fight.

Saturday morning I got up early and went to the temple. Surely I would receive the strength, validation, and perspective I needed there.

But I felt nothing.

I drove home empty and confused.

I talked with my husband that night for a long time. I shared with him all that I was feeling. I talked about each little rope, and he listened patiently and lovingly.

I explained how I was failing at so many things. And how I was hurt by some things. And how I was afraid of some things. And how I really was just so tired of not being enough.

So tired of that.

And what made it worse is that I'm an inspirational writer and speaker.

I'm not supposed to feel this way. I should know better.

I mean, the project I'm working on now is about not believing the lies Satan tells us. So my guilt was even greater. And so was my shame.  I know the gospel. I teach it. I shouldn't struggle like this. And yet, I was.

According to my husband, many of the things that troubled me weren't reality, but my perception.

I can see that as a real possibility.

But still, down I went.

I went to church Sunday morning. There were reminders all around me and in my mind of my ropes--of hurts and unmet expectations and my failures by comparison. I managed to make it through Sacrament meeting without tears, but the moment the closing prayer was said, they started to come.

I secured a ride for my girls, then left church early, the tiny ropes all running through my head.

There was no room for anything else. They were consuming. And painful. And suffocating.

I cried and prayed. And cried and prayed.

Still no answers.

Silence.

That is what has seemed to be the heavenly M.O. for the past few months. Silence.

It was deafening.

And scary.

Most of my life has been with companionship of the Holy Ghost. I almost always received inspiration on major decisions, peace when I asked for it, direction when I sought it, help when I needed it.

But, for whatever reason, the past few months it's been gone. I've felt very alone.

And Sunday, I plead for it. I plead to feel the Spirit, to feel something. To hear something.

And nothing came.

A thousand tiny ropes and deafening silence.

Out of exhaustion, I feel asleep.

When I awoke, I didn't feel better. No miracle relief. No sudden strength or perspective.

Just heaviness, failure, and pain.

I kept the tears at bay the rest of the day, but my thoughts ran freely.

I had plenty of proof of my failures, my not-enough moments, the rejections...I had real reasons to feel the way I did.

I also had false reasons to feel the way I did, too. My own misinterpretations of God's will, my unrealistic expectations of myself, etc.

I spent the day trying to decode the real from the false. It was exhausting and brought me down further.

So many ropes. And still, so much silence.

Then, that evening, I had to ask myself some questions: If the ropes stayed, and the silence remained, could I still believe? Could I trust in myself when I felt so weak, so not-enough? Could I believe the positive things my husband told me about myself when I had so much proof otherwise? Could I trust in God when the heavens were so quiet for so long? Could I be okay if my circumstances didn't change?

Could I lie beneath a thousand tiny ropes under a silent sky and still be all right?


I realized I could.


But it would have to be a purposeful decision. A choice. My choice.

So, that is what I did.

I chose to be okay.

Now, it hasn't come all at once, the good feelings.

And the bad feelings, the pain, the fear, and all that crap, haven't left all at once.

I still feel hurt from open wounds. I still have some fear. I still feel bad.

BUT- a couple things did change.

First, hope entered in. I will feel better. I always have, and I will again.

Second, my eyes began to look away from the ropes to other things...to other people, people I can help. And that always helps me.

Third, as I awoke and went to work this morning, I realized that the sun did, indeed rise again, and that it will tomorrow and the next day and the next day. And I will be okay.

Fourth, I understand that the Atonement can work in my life if I choose to let it, even if it works in a way I don't recognize or am used to. And I choose to believe it's working in me right now.

I've felt this bad only a few other times in my life. But the significant lesson here was that even if many of the ropes are still there and I haven't felt the Spirit reach out to me,  I can choose to try to get up.

I can choose to believe. I can choose to be okay. I can choose to get up.

And I have. At least, I am trying to get up.

I cannot believe I am the only person in the world that has felt this way before. There must be others who have felt suffocated by the weight of a thousand tiny little ropes.

Maybe you're impacted by the deafening silence of heaven right now.

Maybe you have an arsenal of "proof" that you've failed.

Maybe you've been hurt by others.

Or maybe you are simply tired of never being enough.

If you feel this way, I get it. I get you.

It's awful.

And scary.

But it's not permanent. And it's not all real.

You have the power in you to choose what you will believe.

You have the power to choose to be okay.

And you can.

You will.

I am feeling better today. Not 100%. But getting there.

I'm slowly working to recognize and address each little rope.

I'm trying to adjust my life to give myself the space I need to get up again.

And, rather than waiting for the heaven to open up,  I am going to open up to the heavens today.

I can't hear God right now, but I choose to believe He hears me.

And man, do I have a lot to say.

Tiny little ropes. Deafening Silence. And a choice.

I'm going to be okay.

And so can you.


FOLLOW UP:

It's been a couple of days since I wrote this post. I've had time to reflect on it. I've had moments when I thought I would take it down. I mean, who wants to share their sucky times? Their struggles? Their weaknesses?

But then, I think we are so often willing and eager to share the successes that we begin to think that's what life is made of. And that moments like these, where we struggle or cry or doubt or hurt, that these are the exception.

But not only the exception, a bad exception. An embarrassing exception. A weak exception. A wrong exception.

And we begin to hide our struggles and apologize if they show, embarrassed as if we just accidentally mooned a crowd of tourists.

Now I'm not advocating we all share every pain and fear we feel. There's risk in vulnerability. Not to mention, the deep and tender things of our hearts are sacred.

BUT- we should not feel shame because we hurt or struggle or feel.

WE ALL HAVE TIMES LIKE THESE. It is normal. It is human.

It is healthy and good. A cleaning out of closets of sorts. An inventory and even reckoning.

A cleansing and opportunity for choice and a new chapter.

This is what this experience was for me.

I shared some deep feelings. Not all of them...I kept the very personal, sacred stuff to myself. But I shared enough to worry what readers would do with it.

Would they judge how I felt? Would they judge why I share?

But then, the driving force behind sharing was stronger than the fear of sharing.

We need to know that

• everyone struggles sometimes
• hard emotions--even pain- are not always bad
• we have the ability to sort through rather than stuff
• we have more power than we realize over how we feel
• and we can hurt and struggle, and will still be okay.

I am feeling much better. I knew I would. Optimism helps. Looking back at history helps. Perspective helps. But so does my determination to be happy--my choice to be happy. Even when conditions are not perfect. (Are they ever?)

I really am okay. 

No, I am good. 

I'm a bit tired. Still hurting a little. Still thinking a lot.

But I feel strong and balanced again. I feel optimistic and hopeful.

I feel happy.

And I hope you are too.

Women are that they might tolerate?

ˈtäləˌrāt/

I've been thinking a lot lately about life and peace and joy . . . and tolerance.

Not tolerance in the meaning of putting up with other people's views/habits/difference.  I'm not referring to tolerating (accepting or condoning) sin or evil, either.

Tolerance as in personal tolerance--what can we tolerate. And why is that important?

But first I want to back up and talk about joy.

It's been taught, and I've said it before, that "men are that they might have joy." I believe that. I believe joy comes from knowing who you are and why you're here. Joy can be found in family, faith, fun, growth, and more. Yes, God wants us to have joy.

But-- contrary to what some may think (Hold onto your faith-loving hats for this), joy and happiness isn't the only goal of this life. It is a by-product of other things. 

Why is this an important principle to understand? Because when we go through life feeling that joy is the goal, then anything we feel that might be otherwise is considered opposite of the goal, or bad.

When sorrow comes, we pray it will be taken from us. When grief and anger, fear and frustration weigh us down, we pray that we can find relief. We want to get out of these awful situations and get back to the way life should be--filled with joy.  And we often equate joy with the absence of heartache, discomfort, sadness, or pain.

I want to add joy's best friend, peace, to the mix. We like to feel peace. We associate it with ease and comfort.

When we look at securing peace and joy as the goals of life, rather than a byproduct of the goals of life, we can put ourselves in a harmful frame of mind and spirit. 

When we are suffering we can sometimes feel angry at God. Why is He letting me experience this? Doesn't He want me to be happy? Doesn't He care? Why doesn't He simply let me have peace and joy? Why does He allow me to suffer so?

When we feel that peace and joy are the main goals in this life, the seeming absence of peace and joy--or ease and comfort--can create a multitude of problems:

• spiritual entitlement (Why am I suffering? I keep the commandments.)
• resentment towards God (Why aren't You giving me peace and comfort?)
• guilt (What am I doing to disqualify myself from the blessing of peace and joy?)
• doubt (Since God isn't taking this pain away, I wonder if He loves me.)
• shame (I don't deserve to feel peace and joy.)

When we search for and work towards a state of only peace and joy--as interpreted as ease and comfort--we create in our minds the idea that suffering is bad. We tell ourselves that if we are experiencing the opposite of comfort and ease, we are not feeling peace and joy.

But not all suffering is bad. Especially suffering with perspective and purpose.

What if we tweaked our mentality a bit?  What if we were to want joy and peace, of course, but we extend our sights to another goal?

What if our goal was to learn to tolerate discomfort and pain?

I know. It sounds horrible.

In part, because we associate the word tolerate with meanings like "put up with" or "accept because we have to". In addition, most things we "tolerate" are bad. We tolerate going to the dentist, getting shots, having Thanksgiving dinner with certain family members. We "tolerate" things we don't like and wouldn't choose.

These fall under the first, and most commonly associated, the definition of tolerate: to accept or endure something unpleasant or disliked with forbearance. In this light, tolerance is a noble way of handling an unwanted, or even wrong, situation.

But, I want to focus on the other definition of tolerate: to be capable of continued subjection without adverse reaction.

It's not merely about mindset or surviving, but about our capacity to adapt and thrive in challenging conditions.

The reason a cactus can survive in extreme conditions is because they have adapted themselves and can thrive in heat and drout that would wither most other plants. Through adaptation and change, it's found a way to thrive in severe conditions. And, I think it's fair to say, that the cactus has some measure of joy in its existence as well.

Life is hard. And learning to tolerate difficulty is key. Enduring to the end means we train ourselves to tolerate being uncomfortable. (Remember, it doesn't mean we "put up with it.")

It means we strengthen ourselves so we can handle pain and discomfort, and even find purpose and understanding in it, therefore experiencing joy. How can we do this? 

We:

• choose to believe that pain does not always equal bad
• choose to believe that pain does not mean God doesn't love us
• understand that pain and discomfort can be consecrate for our good, if we allow it
• seek God's guidance and perspective during hard times
• rely on the grace and mercy of the Atonement to alleviate unnecessary pain (more on that below)
• Nurture gratitude in difficult times
• accept the fact that sometimes life is simply hard, and 
• learn to love the "nevertheless"

What do I mean by the last one?  

A look at the first verse of the Book of Mormon gives some insight.

1 Nephi 1:1  "I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents, therefore I was taught somewhat in all the learning of my father; and having seen many afflictions in the course of my days, nevertheless, having been highly favored of the Lord in all my days; yea, having had a great knowledge of the goodness and the mysteries of God, therefore I make a record of my proceedings in my days."

Nephi penned (or etched) his history later in life. So, he had the knowledge of hindsight when he recorded this verse. He understood that hard times doesn't mean we are unloved or unblessed.

He adapted in strength and spirit to his conditions, until he could not only survive, but thrive in them. He could tolerate much and celebrate much.

I watched a great Ted talk by Harvard psychologist, Susan Davis. She talks about the danger of pushing aside negative emotions as bad and replacing them with false positivity. We might lose our ability to deal with the world as it is, not as we wish it would be.

"Tough emotions are part of the contract of life," she says. "You don't get to have a meaningful career or raise a family or leave the world a better place without stress or discomfort."

Then she ends with a powerful statement:

"Discomfort is the price of admission to a meaningful life."

Women are that we might have joy. And having joy--real joy--means learning to tolerate being uncomfortable and even hurting.

Our main goal isn't to have joy. We are that we might and can have joy, but joy comes when we become more like God, through conversion and the gaining of knowledge and choosing right over wrong and His will over ours. It comes through feeling all the emotions and still seeing and trusting God. It comes when we learn to adapt and thrive in this harsh mortal world.

Our level of joy can rise with our level of tolerance. As we practice our faith in God and use our agency to repent and make good choices, we can gain strength and understanding.

This means, we can have joy in any circumstance in our lives, even the most difficult ones.

How tolerant are you?

Can you thrive when life gets hard? If you were told that your life were to be like Jacob and his family, could you have joy? 

Of his life, Jacob said, "The time passed away with us, and also our lives passed away like as it were unto us a dream, we being a lonesome and a solemn people, wanderers, cast out from Jerusalem, born in tribulation, in a wilderness, and hated of our brethren, which caused wars and contentions; wherefore we did mourn out our days." (Jacob 7:26)

That sounds like it sucked. 

And yet, Jacob testified of God's mercy unto them, and he marveled and gloried in the Lord's plan of happiness. 

He could tolerate a lot, and because of that, he could see, feel, hear, and know God even more. And feel joy.

I had the strangest thing happen to me this weekend. Compared to the trials Jacob went through, and that some of you are going through, it may seem small. But to me, it was big.

Between my calling as stake Relief Society president and my speaking as an author, I do a lot of teaching in front of a lot of people. My process is always the same: I prayerful prepare until my nervousness turns to excitement. When I become excited to share my message, I know I've figured out what God wants me to say. Then, right before, I invariably feel His approval through the Spirit, and as I speak, I am given further inspiration to make adjustments and additions. I never walk away being proud of myself as a speaker. But I always come away feelings that I've done a good job in His eyes.

Until Saturday.

A few weeks ago I was asked to speak in our adult session of stake conference. I started prayerfully studying and pondering the subject immediately, but found no inspiration. I struggled to think of a clear direction and I couldn't remember the things I'd just read.

Because there was to be a change on our stake presidency, we had two general authorities come to visit. If that didn't make me nervous enough, my (then) stake president asked me not to use notes. I don't write my talks about, but I do like to have some bullets points to keep me on track.

But not this time. Ten minutes, no notes, on caring for the poor and needy.

So, I prayed and read and made outlines to memorize and nothing came. The day of the conference session came and I drove to the church with tears in my eyes because God had yet to bless me with inspiration. Any inspiration. Not even a warm fuzzy.

Feelings of inadequacy began to take over. Fear, frustration, doubt all grew louder. I was an hour away, half hour away, ten minutes away, then it was my turn, and I still had no idea what I was going to say.

I thought it was a lack of faith, do I decided to stand and open my mouth, fully believing He would put words into it like He has before.

But He didn't.

I stood there, facing 700 people and my mind was blank. A quick mental scramble produces some key points, but I stumbled over words and fumbled over thoughts. I stopped in the middle and prayed for some guidance, some feeling, some sign of His presence or approval. 

Nothing.

I was rattled.

What was supposed to be a 10-minute inspirational talk about caring for the poor and the needy turned out to be a 7.5 minute mess.

I sat down and wanted to cry. But, as I was the first speaker, and sitting shoulder to shoulder with a GA, I felt it best to put on my brave face and save the crying for the ride home.

And yes, I did cry.

Feelings and questions came. Why did God abandon me? What is He trying to tell me? Had I failed? Should I not have opened my mouth? And, honestly, what on earth had I even said?

Questions fed doubts, as they often do, and soon I had convinced myself that this uncomfortable and even painful experience meant one thing: something was wrong. Either I'd failed him, or I was too proud, or He doesn't want me to speak anymore.

None of the things I'd figured out were good. But, it was an uncomfortable situation and those are, you know, bad.

I had the thought to blog tonight when I looked into my drafts and saw the beginnings of this one. I had started it a month ago and set it aside to finish later.

I'll admit, I chuckled when I realized God used my own words to answer some of my own questions. Tricky one, He is.

I realized tonight that I went through something really uncomfortable. I felt abandoned by God. Even if it was just for a talk, the feeling was real. And awful.

But, what can I tolerate? Can I still endure, thrive even, in situations like this?

Can I choose happiness and hope and trust when the evidence points to other things?

Can I choose to believe that there is a really good reason for this experience? And the reason may simply have been for me to experience it and gain knowledge and wisdom from it.

Can my testimony grow and can I change for the better even in the moments I don't feel Him near.

The answer is yes, I can.

I can tolerate this. And I can tolerate a whole lot more.

Because I know that this life is a test--our proving grounds for eternity. And if I fold or buckle every time it gets rough, I will weak and blaming others for my pain. I will be angry and perhaps even inconsolable. I would drive to the store at 11pm to buy a new purse then go home and eat ice cream out of the carton for like 30 minutes then Instagram it. (Oh wait, I did do those things.)  I would be a sad case in the end indeed.

And it's not just the talk. Like you, I have a glaring list of hard things in my life right now. I've got super proof in my arsenal that life stinks sometimes and pain is bad. But, But I want a meaningful life. And I refuse to give more power to harsh conditions that they already take. 

When I was eight years old Spencer W. Kimball said, "There are great challenges ahead of us, giant opportunities to be met. I welcome that exciting prospect and feel to say to the Lord, humbly, "Give me this mountain", give me these challenges."

I echo his words now.

Though I still feel wounded a bit, I am ready to meet the challenges of life.

I am ready to pay the admission for a meaningful life.

Give me this mountain.

Give me these challenges.

I can tolerate them.

I can thrive.

And I can have joy.


And so can you.