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.

When You Don't Love Your Child

I’m going to tell you something I’ve only told a few people in my life: I struggled to love my child.

You might judge me for this, and I’m okay with that. I used to be afraid of what other people might think—other mothers—if those words ever left my lips. Would they think I was a bad mother? A bad person? A monster, even?

Because mothers love. That’s what we do.

Well, that’s what I tried to do.

But I couldn’t.

So I kept this sorrow, this shame, hidden for years. Until today.

First you need to know there is a happy ending. Love is there now. It’s real and it’s growing. But it didn’t start that way.

Here’s my story.

In 2001 I had a hysterectomy due to severe endometriosis and adenomyosis. I had given birth to two children, but after years of treatments my body simply could not give me what I wanted. Not only was I barren, but the pain caused from my mutinous uterus sentenced me to the couch for hours each day. I was burdened by guilt and grief. I could not make children, and I could not take care of the children I had.

The night before the procedure I requested a blessing from my Bishop. It was an opportunity to him to put his hands on my head and be the mouthpiece for God. I was standing on the precipice of permanent infertility, and I wanted to hear it would be okay. I needed to hear it.

I was told everything would be okay, that I would recover, and all would be well.  But then, I was told two something very unexpected. I was told I was not finished adding to my family.

I’ll admit, I opened my eyes and looked up as I secretly reminded God that a hysterectomy was the removal of the “oven.” Of course I knew He knew that. But then . . . why would He say what He did?

I tucked the promise deep in my heart and went about recovering from the surgery. After a few hiccups (which is a post for another day) I regained my health and life back. I was off the couch and active with my children. I began jogging and even trained for a 5k.

Life seemed to go one, as it always does.  Then in 2008—seven years after my surgery—a thought that had entered my mind in the past finally made it into my heart: adoption.

I talked my husband about it, and we both felt good. So we started the process of fostering and adopting through the state of Washington.

It was an arduous process. The classes, the statistics, the videos about childhood neglect and pain. I drove home many night with tears in my eyes. I wanted to adopt every child and give them all the love they never had and all they love they deserved!

After we became licensed we met many foster children looking for a forever home. Little did I know this would be even more difficult than the training. Our social worker would introduce us and we’d spend and afternoon or two, or they’d spend time in our home, in order to see if they were a good fit for our family.

The social workers thought we were looking at logistics: age, issues, and the like. What they didn’t know is that God was very active in our search for a child, and I every time I met a child and prayed, I received the same answer, “They are not yours.”

This made no sense to me. Why not? Why can’t I keep them, help them, love them? Why would You prompt me to go down this path when You keep telling me no?

This was especially difficult when we had two young foster boys stay with us for six weeks. Oh, how we wanted them. Then, one night as I was bathing the youngest, the answer came again, “They are not yours.”

It broke my heart.

I see now the wisdom in His words. I was instrumental in gaining them placement in a home who, just two months before, had received inspiration to build on their house and bring two more boys into their family. God knew that. I didn’t. And God knew that they needed to come to my house as an intersection, so they could make it to the forever family He intended for them.

But I didn’t know it then. I simply knew God didn’t see me fit to love any of the children that had crossed my path. And it was too much to bear.

So, after much struggle, my husband and I decided not to adopt. I figured I would be blessed for being willing, and God would somehow fulfill His words in some other way.

I stopped calling our social worker. I stopped looking at websites and children’s profiles. I tucked away the thought of more children and replaced it with other things. I was free from the emotional turmoil, and was content. . .  for the most part. There was a sliver of shame, of grief, and of sorrow that I could not shake. So I shoved it inside, took a deep breath, and kept going.

Then, one day—July 6^th 2010 to be exact—I received a phone call. It was a social worker I’d never met from an agency I’d never heard of. She had an emergency placement for a little six-year-old girl. Somehow our family bio was on the top of a pile of papers on her desk. Strange, she said, since she nor anyone else in the office had seen it before. But there it was, and would we take this little girl that night. 

I asked for an hour and called my husband, son, and daughter. We prayed individually, and when we all felt good about it, I called her back. Yes, we will take her. But just for a few days until they can find a permanent home for her. We were not planning to adopt any more.

She came that night at 6:30pm, with fast food in one hand, a juice mustache, a glint of fear in her eyes, and a smile almost wide enough to hide it. She was darling, and I felt a pull at my heart strings.

Still, I couldn’t do commit. I couldn’t even ask God. I couldn’t have Him tell me again I wasn’t up to the task. (My interpretation. Not His.)

She stayed for a few days, and those days turned into weeks. The social workers told us we could adopt her if we wanted, but I was still not able to commit. I was afraid.

Then, one night as I tucked her into bed, I pushed the hair from her eyes and a voice whispered, “She is yours.”

My husband was cautious but excited, as were my two older children. We were really going to add another child to our family, forever.

I spoke to the social worker who put things in motion. I trusted God’s answer and was excited to give her all the love I had.

The initial few months was good, with expected bumps in the road. The more comfortable she became with us the more her negative behaviors surfaced. The more comfortable I became with her the more I “mommed” her. She tested us, she tried us, she wanted us, she didn’t want us.

It was work, parenting a child with a trauma childhood. It was hard, loving a child who didn’t know how to love you. But I had faith in my ability to love. That was why God brought her to me, was to love her, I thought. Because remember, that’s what moms do. They love.

But I struggled.

The love for her didn’t come naturally as the social workers said it would. I didn’t feel that instant connection with her. Oh, I tried. I prayed. I cried. I went to the temple. We went to counseling together. I read her books and tucked her in bed.

But it was hard.

The behaviors and issues she had brought with her made it extremely difficult to like her at times. She came lying and manipulating. It wasn’t a matter of right and wrong. Not for a trauma child. It was the way she survived. You get what you want how and whenever you can, before someone takes it from you or hurts you. She had a shell around her formed from lies and screams and smiles that was nearly impenetrable. It wasn’t her I saw. It was her behaviors. And it’s hard to like someone who doesn’t seem real. It’s even harder to love someone who doesn’t love you back.

The Savior talked about loving your enemy. He said, “But I say unto you Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you” (Matthew 5:44)

She cursed me, said she hated me, despitefully used me, and even persecuted me. And He wanted me to love her still. I wanted to love her still.

But I didn’t. Not that way I thought I should.

I found myself feeling unqualified to be her mom. There were times I didn’t want to be her mom. I felt deep shame for these feelings. Why would God give her to me when there were so many other kinder, more loving mothers? Why her? Why me? He asked me to do this one thing, to love her, and I was failing her. I was failing Him.

I was a failure.

And who paid the price? My daughter.

I shared these feelings with my husband one day, who said all the right things to me.

But still I ached.

God was asking too much of me. I wanted so badly to feel the boundless outpouring of love for her I had expected to, I had wanted to. And yet. At times, the well was dry.

For a long time I kept this shame inside. I joked and ate through the pain, gaining thirty pounds since she’d walked through my door. I couldn’t talk to anyone about it, because I was sure I was the only mother horrible enough to struggle with loving her child. Because mothers love. That’s just what they do.

Except me. The mother who was the greatest failure of all.

I told myself if I couldn’t love her the way I thought I should, then she would never know it. No matter how challenged I was, how much I struggled because I was weak and a failure, she would never go a day without feeling I care, without feeling I loved her.

And she never did.

This was one of the reasons I never spoke about it. How would she feel if she knew I was struggling to love her? She had already had so much devastation and pain in her life. I would not be the cause of more.

So I kept quiet, except to God and to my husband a two or three choice friends.

Their words were all kind and good, but did not have the power to take away my shame and failure. What mother doesn’t love their child? What kind of monster was I?

This was a burden I carried secretly for a long time. I felt alone. So alone.

I wish I could tell you it hit me in a moment, that I can remember the exact time and place I was when things started to change, when my perspective started to shift, when the answers started to come. I can’t. But I can tell you it was after many hours of prayer, fasting, talking, and temple visits.  And, I can tell you three things I learned that have changed (almost) everything for me.

1)    My expectations shaded my reality. I realized, and if you look back at how this was written, that most of my struggle came from the way I felt not matching the way I thought I should feel. I fully expected that love would flow as fast and rich as it did when I held my bio children for the first time. Anything less than that wasn’t love in my eyes. When that love didn’t come, I felt I had failed. And with that failure came sorrow, fear, grief, and failure.  When I released myself—my love—from this expectation which was based on unfair comparison, I was able to see that I did indeed love her. It looked different, and felt different, much like the love I have for my husband is different. That love is a choice, it is worked at and nurtured. But it is still love. And so it is with my adopted daughter. It is a choice, and I am nurturing it.

When I release my feelings for her from the idea of what love should be, or the comparison to other hues of love, I can finally see it for what it is: love.  Though it may not have been as strong as I’d liked, it is still love nonetheless. This love for her led me to realize this next truth.

2)    A mother’s love isn’t one color, or one strength. I felt a great joy and relief when I allowed myself to see that my love wasn’t different for just my youngest, but for each of my children. I love each of my children differently. I love my son differently than my oldest daughter. I love my oldest daughter differently than my youngest daughter. My love for each of my children touches different parts of my heart. Sometimes it brings me joy, and other times it causes me pain. My love for them is different, and that’s okay.

3)    Perfect love can be given through me. This one was, perhaps, the biggest epiphany for me, and the one I’m going to talk about the most.

Moroni speaks at length about charity, which is the pure love of Christ. I always got hung up on the verse he penned (or chiseled) in Moroni 7:46 in the Book of Mormon, which reads: “Wherefore, My beloved brethren, if ye have not charity, ye are nothing.”

It’s easy to see, if I stop there, which I did many times, why I felt so awful about struggling to love my daughter. Without love, I was nothing.

Moroni continues: “Wherefore, cleave unto charity, which is the greatest of all, for all things must fail.”  This didn’t make me feel any better. I was supposed to develop this perfect love for her when sometimes I couldn’t even love myself because of my failure. I was screwed.

But, here is where things turned for me.

I began to understand what charity was.

Charity isn’t love I develop. It is Christ’s love which is given to me as a gift. I do not have build the capacity to love like Jesus does—perfectly. I simply need to qualify myself for the gift of His love for myself and others. As I strive to be worthy and seek after it, He will bless me with His charity.

It’s not about me. It’s about Him.

This was huge for me.

As I began to understand that it’s not about my capacity to love, but my capacity to qualify for and accept His love, the words of Moroni became clear.

“But charity is the pure love of Christ, and it endureth forever; and whoso is found possessed of it at the last day, it shall be well with him” (Moroni 7:47).

Those three words, “possessed of it,” changed my world.

As I try to love, I can ask God to bless me with His love for her and the love I feel is multiplied.

Elder Chi Hong Wong said, “We begin to develop the gift of charity through our sincere efforts to emulate the Savior. However, the full measure of this gift is bestowed upon us by God as we earnestly seek it in prayer.” (Wong, Ensign, 2016)

What great relief and peace this brought to me! I knew how to pray, so that’s what I did. I asked for charity, to feel His love for her.

And then I did.

And it was beautiful.

My God is her God, and He loves her dearly.

I felt it. I knew it.

And here’s the amazing thing. You see, when we seek for and allow the love of God to pass through us, I believe some of it is left behind. That, I think, is how we grow in charity. And every time I pray for it, and feel His love for her pass through me to her, I am left loving her more.

It’s a beautiful cycle. Try to love. Ask for His love. Feel His love. Love more.

These thing all together—adjusting my expectations of love, recognizing that love can look different, and perfect love can be given through me—breathed life into my beat-down soul. 

I was not a failure. I was not a horrible mother. My child really was loved by me, and by God.

The trifecta of realizations left me feeling hopeful and well, loving.

Then one more answer came quietly one day, as I was pondering love:  It isn’t my love that will save her. It is His.

In the quiet moments where doubt and fear still try to creep in, I remind myself that even if my worst fears had been true, even if I hadn’t been able to love my daughter, God did. And Jesus Christ did. Through the power of the Atonement, the Lord’s love is what will save her.

Mine will help ground her, soften her, encourage her, heal her, but it won’t save her.

That took another layer of pressure of myself.  I don’t have to save her. I simply have to keep doing what I’m doing: teaching her the gospel, studying about parenting trauma kids and using what I’ve learned, trying to see beyond the layers of issues and behaviors to the real her, and loving her in my way the best I can.

I realized my daughter was brought to me, in large part, because I have the gospel of Jesus Christ in my life. This means I can point her in the direction of perfect love. I can help her develop a relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. There she can find the healing balm of grace and mercy. There she can find perfect love. There she can receive all God has planned for her: joy, family, fulfillment, and yes, more love.

I have stopped trying to be the perfect mom giving the perfect love, and have simply allowed myself to love her in my way and help her feel God’s love.

An interesting thing has come from all of this discovery and growth: I have felt more love from my Father in Heaven and my Savior. I recognize Their awareness of me. They know my weaknesses and shortcomings. They see my faults and sins. They understand the desires of my heart, both good and bad. And they love me.

As I’ve pleaded to feel their love for my daughter, I have felt their love for me in so many ways. Their perfect love has mended my once-broken heart and buoyed my tired and aching soul. Their love has calmed my fears and extricated the shame from the deepest parts of my heart. It has given me confidence in myself and my abilities, and hope for the future—hers and mine.

Their love has freed not only her, but me. It has helped me to see what I can do with their help.

It’s also helped me to see that I really do love her.

And I always have.

Today I shared a small portion of these feelings with a group of women in church. I wasn’t expecting to. I really didn’t want to. It was scary, to stand in front of a room full of mothers and say the words, “I struggled to love my child.” But I did it.

I did it because, though I risk judgement by some who simply won’t understand (and that’s okay), I am not alone. It doesn’t happen this way with every adoptive mom, but it does for many. It even happens with some moms towards their biological children.

Sometimes it seems really hard to love your child. It’s a horrifying and shaming feeling.

And this is why I want to share this now. Because I want moms to know it’s okay to struggle. I want them to know that God’s love is big enough for both of you. I want moms to know that, most likely, you do love your child, it just looks different than you expected it to.

To those moms I want to say: You’re not a monster.  You’re not a failure. You’re not alone. You have the capacity to love. You are who your child needs. You’re not failing God. You are a good person, a loving person. There is no shame in the struggle to love. Struggle shows you have desire, and that’s what God wants: a willing heart.

Take your burdens to the Lord so He can ease them. Ask for His love for your child to flow through you, and He’ll leave some behind.

Be kind to yourself. You are doing better than you realize. You really are.

And know that God loves you. His love is bigger than your pain, and stronger than your fear and shame. It is true: charity never faileth. 

With His help, we can be everything each of our children need. Everything. Even when we aren’t enough. With God and Jesus Christ, our children will have more than enough.

So, rest your weary heads and hearts and see with Their eyes.

You just might see you really do love your children.

And that you always have.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A mother's note:

One of reasons I've never shared this before is because I am fiercely protective of my daughter. I do not want anyone to judge her harshly, or see her in a negative light. A traumatic childhood can create issues for nearly any person. This post is about me and my struggles- not a letter of dissatisfaction or complaint about her. This was about my struggle, not hers, or any deficiencies she might have (we all have them, right?). Her behaviors are what I struggled with, and when I began to realize my false expectations and further truths about love, and also that I wasn't required to love her behaviors, but to love her, I found peace and truth.

She has her struggles, but we all do. My daughter is awesome. She is confident, quick to help and eager to forgive. She loves to make people happy. Her laugh is infectious. She loves God. She is strong and growing and blossoming into a beautiful young woman. She is making choices that bring her joy.

My daughter is valiant, special, and divine. In fact, all my kids are. So please, if you still feel like judging, throw it my way. But, out of respect, please don't think or speak ill of my child. She's amazing. She is a gift from God to me, and I love her. I truly do.


(If you'd like to share the love, literally, please click on the icon below.)

Photo courtesy of istockphoto.com