Where are you going, and why do you want to be there?

Oh, how I love the Book of Mormon. As this semester I am taking a math class, let me just reiterate: I love the Book of Mormon!

“And Moroni was a strong and a mighty man; he was a man of a perfect understanding; yea, a man that did not delight in bloodshed; a man whose soul did joy in the liberty and the freedom of his country, and his brethren from bondage and slavery; 

“Yea, a man whose heart did swell with thanksgiving to his God, for the many privileges and blessings which he bestowed upon his people; a man who did labor exceedingly for the welfare and safety of his people.

“Yea, and he was a man who was firm in the faith of Christ, and he had sworn with an oath to defend his people, his rights, and his country, and his religion, even to the loss of his blood.” (Alma 48:11-13)

::swoon:: Here it is, ladies, the description of the perfect man. And it just gets better from there:  

“Yea, verily, verily, I say unto you, if all men had been, and were, and ever would be, like unto Moroni, behold, the very powers of hell would have been shaken forever; yea, the devil would never have power over the hearts of the children of men.” (Alma 48:17)

Seriously, he sounds like an amazing guy. Now, mind you, he was CAPTAIN Moroni, and battles were his specialty, though not because he enjoyed bloodshed. He was known for stopping a battle when it was clear that he and his army had gained the upper hand, offering peace to their opponents if they would put down their weapons and covenant to no longer come after his people to do them harm. Sometimes he would get a “yes,” but sometimes he would get a “no,” and the battle would continue. It is clear from reading that Moroni’s heart hurt at the thought of killing his opponents because he viewed them as fellow children of God.

October 2001 General Conference was just weeks after 9/11. Pres. Hinckley spoke to us, comforting us because we were afraid and sad. It was a time we really needed to hear from a prophet of God, and he did not disappoint. What a blessing we have to have a living prophet who leads the Lord's church and encourages us not to give up.

Moroni lived in a very interesting time. He was valiant, and his reputation lasted at least 500 years until the time of Mormon. We need more heroes in our world, but I digress. Moroni was not alone in his sterling character during his time. He was blessed to be here with the likes of Helaman, who seemed to be continually humbled and nearly overcome with emotion because of his association with the 2,060 young men he took under his wing and who fought with great courage and great faith. Their faith was so great in the things they had been taught by their mothers that they did not fear death. They might even have been surprised that they survived, but that was beside the point, in their eyes.

My favorite interaction, though, was that between Moroni and Pahoran. While Moroni was filled with great courage as well as great wisdom and cunning in battle, he was also a good man. He valued his freedom, his family, the right for all of them to worship as they chose, and he never lost sight of those values. Pahoran was back at home governing the city. When Moroni was getting frustrated because Pahoran was not sending the supplies and reinforcements they desperately needed, he wrote a passionate letter that came just short of calling Pahoran names. And Pahoran’s response was one we should all read over and over again. Pahoran recognized the tone of Moroni’s letter, and he felt bad about failing Moroni. But Pahoran patiently explained the difficulties that had befallen their city, urging Moroni to get reinforcements to them as soon as possible. He acknowledged how angry Moroni was, but he did not take offense. 

In response, Moroni rejoiced to learn that he had been mistaken, that Pahoran was still with them and had not forsaken them. He did exactly what Pahoran had requested, and they were victorious. Both Moroni and Pahoran were strong men, great leaders. But neither man was focused on power or glory. Instead, each continued to be focusing on the values they had acknowledged from the beginning.

How foolish we must look to those folks. Many of us take offense so easily. Let us be valiant for courage. Let us look at what priorities we have in our lives and put all the energy of our souls into those priorities.

I love the Book of Mormon. I can’t wait to (re)read what happens next!

The Zonky Zoramites

When I was in high school, I went to girls camp (church camp) for a week in the summer. I remember those times fondly. We were supposed to come up with a name for our ward’s group. The name was supposed to fit with that year’s theme. One year we chose “Zonky Zoramites.” Because I was a relatively new member of the church, I really wasn’t that familiar with the Zoramites. That was 40 years ago this year, so I think I have it down now.

My husband and I have been married almost 19 years. We have so much fun just hanging out with one another. I feel so blessed. I love so much about my life these days. One of the things we have always joked about was whether any of our prospective two-story houses (we have moved several times in those 19 years) had a Rameumptom. Of course, our purpose was not to stand at that Rameumptom and pray out loud about how awesome we were or how much better we were than the others in our family. We are parents – no one would have believed us anyway. The reality is that any Rameumptom in any of our homes was used to communicate loudly to get one another’s attention when one person was on the top floor and someone else on the bottom floor. We are currently searching for a new home to rent; our search for the latest Rameumptom is afoot!

I continue to love and learn about Alma and his companions. I can only imagine how difficult their lives were and the conditions that were part of their experiences. I’m sitting in a comfy king size bed in a nice hotel (my hubby is a hotel photographer, and I came with him on his latest assignment). We have a comfortable car we can drive back home where we have our own king size bed waiting. We never go without food or water. We have the necessities of life. We like each other, and we like our kids. Like I said, I am so blessed.

The Zoramites during the time of Alma were an interesting bunch. They were so disdainful of the Nephites. They were also very critical of their fellow Zoramites who didn’t dress just right and didn’t have quite a high enough income. I have been and continue to be judged by others for things like that, and it really makes me shrug. Seriously? Don’t we all have enough to do in our lives that we really don’t have time to spend thinking about the supposed inferiority of others?

The poor castouts were humbled because of their circumstances. They were not allowed to worship where their “church” worshiped, and if they were in the vicinity, they got to hear the more prosperous Zoramites declaring to God that the poor Zoramites were beneath their notice.

Alma pointed out that he was glad the poor people were humble, though he took note of the fact that they had to be humbled by their circumstance in life in order to be ready to listen to the words he and his companions were there to preach. He mentioned how much better it is when we humble ourselves because of the word of God and are not forced to become humble before we’ll listen.

Alma the Elder was completely different. He was among a group of pretty worldly priests. I have a feeling he was a good priest, as far as that went, before he met Abinadi, but I wonder whether he felt his conscience pricked from time to time, knowing that he was not living quite the way he suspected God wanted. When he heard Abinadi, the bells must have been going off in his head. He must have been saying in his own mind, “This is it! This is what we are supposed to know and what we are supposed to be doing!” I can’t imagine his being able to go someplace quiet and be able to remember the words of Abinadi so clearly that he could write them down and preserve them for us to have today. Alma was a humble man. He wasn’t compelled to be humbled, but he was reminded of the right thing to do and immediately went out and did it. So many people were blessed beyond measure because he recognized truth when he heard it, and he acted upon that recognition.

40 years. Wow. Where has that time gone? I see pictures of my high school classmates and wonder to myself, “Why are these people so old? Weren’t they JUST 14?” Every single day of those 40 years I have marveled at what a blessing it has been to me. I am grateful for the Almas in my life. I am grateful for where I am today. I don’t like to think of where I would have been without the knowledge I now have.

Life’s pretty good, isn’t it?

Nobody Treats a Daughter of God that Way

In looking back over five years of blog writing, I can see that I hover around this topic from time to time. It's either because someone has made another stupid comment about women who are/have been abused or because I have had a personal experience that has brought it all crashing back to my mind. If you're not interested, that's okay. You don't have to read it.

I became free 20 years, one month, and one day ago. It took me about 13 years to give myself permission to get there. Even after I made the decision, it took some time to enforce it. It was the best thing I ever did. It was the scariest thing I ever did. But it was the most correct thing I had done in 14 years.

I happened to be seeing a therapist at the time, and he felt so bad because he thought he had pushed me into making the decision. I actually spent that next session assuring him that it was the right thing to do. All he had done was help me talk it out, which gave me the clarity and courage I needed to do it.

In the ensuing months, as I went through the trauma that is separation and divorce, my therapist was my lifeline. One day he asked me if, when I had experienced physical abuse, I had ever had an out-of-body experience. That shook me. Of course not. Oh. Wait.

The very first time my abuser laid a hand on me, he put his hands around my throat and squeezed just enough to stop my breathing for a second. I think he might have been almost as horrified as I at what he was doing. That second seemed to last minutes, and I can remember calmly observing to myself, “Oh, wow, you really CAN’T breathe when someone is strangling you.”

I had a new job in a law office. It was mid-March, but I wore a turtleneck sweater to work the next day. I was ashamed. I was embarrassed. The police had come over while I was bathing my baby girl the night before. Someone had called them because of the noise in our apartment. They made my abuser let them in the apartment so they could come see me and talk with me. I was mortified. I assured the female police officer who stepped into the bathroom that I was “fine, thanks.” I was still in shock. I was by no means fat or slovenly or alcoholic or drug addicted. See, all those things created the image in my mind of a woman who is abused by her husband or boyfriend. I was none of those things. I was even cute then. I was 22 years old.

Someone who loves me told me I need to forgive myself already. Great advice. I know it was inspired by love and concern. And you are right. That is a topic I address often:  Forgiving ourselves as well as forgiving others.

The reason that I sat down to the computer to write this blog entry is that my brain continued to churn last night and today, and I had an “aha!” moment. I suddenly remembered the other thing my long ago therapist had mentioned:  PTSD. Like most people, I always assumed that was something that just plagued military members who had experienced combat trauma. I learned something in the past years that helped me understand that post-traumatic stress disorder is exactly that; it is feeling and behaving as though one is experiencing the trauma of a past experience as if it were happening again.

I work in a courtroom. Most of my friends and family know that I am a court reporter. I have heard and seen many things in my career that I wish I hadn’t seen or heard. Interestingly, most of those things don’t affect me personally other than making me sad or disgusted. I think the reason I can do my job and still feel positive about my life is that I compartmentalize the things I am hearing. There is also so called “black humor” or “gallows humor.” Hubby is a retired medic, so he is well acquainted with using that kind of humor to help relieve the stress of dealing with other people’s trauma and a lot of death. Sometimes I laugh and ask him, “Can you imagine if anyone ever heard some of our conversations? They’d think we were horrible people.” Oh. Wait. :D

But guess what? Domestic violence isn’t something you can joke about. That doesn’t fit appropriately in any setting. The reality is that I’ve never truly relieved that pressure. The past 20 years of NOT being abused have helped me a great deal. Spending each night in the arms of an imperfect man who has rarely raised his voice to me (and only when my voice was similarly raised) and would never think to raise a hand to me makes imperfect me feel like a princess. Okay, a queen. I’m a bit long in the tooth to still think I’m a princess.

My judge had a defendant who had been charged with domestic violence. The defendant was accused of the attempted strangling of the mother of his young son. I’m usually kind to everyone in the courtroom, even the occasional defendant who meets my eye. Not this guy. Everything about him made my skin crawl. And then we had a suppression hearing. One of the witnesses was a police officer. He was there to set up the foundation for the arrest. That foundation included identifying a CD. The CD contained an audio recording made from the device all the officers here wear. I’ve transcribed a few of those. None of them bothered me, and I barely raised an eyebrow as I listened. Not this time.

As I listened to the recording (which, thankfully, I didn’t have to write as I listened), I was transported back to the 1980s. I could hear the language the “man” was screaming at his girlfriend. I can’t even type this well. In that moment I was that girl, and he was THAT man.

Unfortunately, regardless of the outcome of the suppression motion, the case went to trial, and I had to listen again. This time in front of a jury (one reason I keep my back to the jury). I had to listen and write the things the victim testified. My throat was dry. My heart beat a little harder. My palms were sweating. But I couldn’t leave. I had to maintain my composure. “I am a professional,” I kept telling myself silently in my head. Even after being found guilty, being sentenced to a rider, and ultimately returning from that rider, the man exuded such anger that I was afraid of him even when he was wearing shackles and cuffs and surrounded by court security. He’s not a very big guy. Just like my abuser had not been such a big guy.

I still remember things occasionally. Things I had forgotten. I honestly can’t remember much about those 14 years. I just remember that I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, or industrious enough. I only delivered “broken” children. This shouldn’t have surprised me. When I told my abuser that I was pregnant, when I was just 19 years old, he said, “Well, I guess we have to get married. I’m not gonna get you a ring or anything because it’s not like we love each other.”

Let me mention these thoughts:  In the years since my abuser left this earth, I have been told “He really loved you, you know.” I’ve been told once or twice about some time or another in which he showed someone else how he felt about me. I want to say that he NEVER told me he loved me. Never. He would tell others he loved me. He was all about looking good in the eyes of others. He barely touched me unless he was expecting sex or he was administering physical discipline while in a rage. Because my church at that time wasn’t really instructing the bishops how to counsel people in my situation, I was all alone. I was trying to do the right thing. Divorce was the wrong thing. I had been taught that. 

It took me a long time to have the courage to end it. And then, even after we were separated, even after I met the love of my life, and we were married and had two children together, he continued to abuse me in other ways. Our very last conversation over the phone was his screaming at me (I’m sure spittle was flying) as he blamed me for something that was clearly his own doing. One time just before that, my Darryl had to step out of the car and stand between me and my ex to protect me because my ex was inches from my face and screaming at me about something that, again, was his own fault. Darryl even had to push him away from both of us after the ex tried to shoved Darryl.

Let me assure you, anyone reading this who knew my ex, he was not a healthy man. I would imagine he had the ability to be a good man, but he was so impaired that I never saw that good man. Despite the things some of his children have convinced themselves, I remember that he physically abused each of them far worse than he did me.

I officially split because I had been threatened with having my children taken away. Some of them could not be saved, and it hurts my heart every single day when I see what those years of abuse have done to them. THAT is the one thing for which I have had to forgive myself. I should have left and never looked back that first time he laid a hand on one of our young children. But I didn’t. I hope that my kids will forgive me some day.

The reason I speak about this often is that this is part of my healing. I will need to keep doing this for the rest of my life, I’m sure. I no longer feel that I will ever be abused again. I admit it was a blessing to me when that threat was removed. I am sure I am currently being condemned by others for that feeling, but there it is.

I am a strong woman. I have a good man. He struggles with his own demons, but he accepts my efforts to nurture him. The truth is that he nurtures me every single waking minute. Together we have worked so hard to have the kind of love and friendship that makes up our marriage. Every single thing we do together feels like a date. Had I not known the horror of my previous life, I’m not sure I would have really appreciated what I have, but I sure do now.

I have forgiven myself. More important, though:  I have come to realize exactly what was going on and that it was NOT MY FAULT.