Several years ago when I attended a session of stake conference, I listened to a speaker discuss her thankfulness for trials, specifically for cancer. She was a young mother of three children, but before she was even married, she had been diagnosed with brain cancer. It ended up being curable, but it was a long process. While she discussed the actual cancer and its treatment for only a few brief minutes, she spent the majority of the time discussing how thankful she was that she had been given the opportunity to suffer.
I was incredulous. In fact, I felt that she must be holier-than-thou, because no one in their right mind would be thankful for such a horrible thing.
Fast forward to the day I was abruptly released from my seminary calling. In the grand scheme of things, this experience surely is nothing in comparison to cancer, but I believe in my own sphere of living, it was one of the trickiest trials the Lord has given, or could have given me. After all, Heavenly Father knows us best. He knows where our weaknesses lay, and he knows how we will grow the most. I'm well acquainted with physical trials, and I power through them pretty well. Trials, however, that test my feelings of self-worth are cancer to my soul.
In the days following my release, John was my biggest support. In fact, he offered two perspectives that I couldn't see: 1) the calling had been incredibly stressful on me and the family, and wouldn't it be nice to not have that stress?, and 2) the kids who had complained about me didn't deserve what I had to give them. A kind of "pearls before swine" mentality.
John was brilliant. He didn't try to preach to me about trials, and being strong, and humbling myself before the Lord. He just had my back against the naysayers, and he was determined to convince me that I was better off without the calling. I love my man.
The crazy thing? In my mind, it worked. Within days, I felt a wave of peace come over me, and I couldn't deny that John was right. Being released WAS the right thing for me and my family, and it was an inspired release.
Except that I wouldn't allow myself to believe that.
That's right. I felt that I deserved to be indignant about the whole experience. What is indignation? Feeling or showing anger or annoyance at what is perceived as unfair treatment. While I rarely toot my own horn, or even believe that I should even be on this earth, I will own the fact that I was a really great seminary teacher. I gave everything to those kids, and you better believe that the seventeen kids who didn't complain about me appreciated my service. The indignation only grew as the letters, emails, phone calls and gifts started pouring in after my release was announced. The kids were so sad and confused about me being released, and it was hard to explain to them why I wasn't there anymore.
I felt that I deserved to be angry. It had been unfair. As someone said to me, the situation of my release was like the inmates running the prison, or the tail wagging the dog. I couldn't have agreed more.
The following Sunday, the theme of sacrament meeting was forgiveness. Oh my goodness, I wanted to crawl out of my skin, especially because one of the kids who hadn't supported me as a teacher was giving one of the talks. In fact, I was already suppressing anxiety attacks, so I walked out of the meeting. I got as far as I could from actually hearing the words of the talks while staying within earshot so I would know when to go back in to play the organ. Again, the Lord was trying to teach me as was the Spirit, but I didn't want to listen. Everything that I tried not to hear (but did hear) was exactly what I needed to hear, but I refused to listen.
I felt that before I forgave anyone, people needed to ask forgiveness of me. In other words, I felt entitled to hold a grudge.
The next two Sundays were pure torture. One of the parents who had complained about me gave a talk. Again, I walked out of the meeting. The following Sunday was ward conference, and it was a slap in the face, hearing the names of the ward leaders, two of whom were the complaining parents (along with their priesthood holding sons). For the first time in my life, I did NOT raise my hand to sustain someone. In my mind, they had not sustained me, and I would not raise my hand and then go back on that at some later date. It was a difficult thing to do, especially considering I was sitting up at the organ in front of everyone, but it meant something to me.
The following Sunday, I could hardly make it through the meeting. It had been several weeks at this point, and none of the naysayers had reached out to me at all. Not the bishop, and neither of the parents. I hated showing up for church, only to sit in front of everyone, playing the organ. Honestly, if it hadn't been for that calling, and for the fact that I couldn't stand the idea of Glo sitting alone in a pew, I would not have shown up. By the time I would sit down in the pew next to Glo, I was an anxious mess. And it was on this Sunday that the bishop decided to bear his testimony about healing. That's right....healing. And I knew as soon as he began speaking, that he was speaking directly to me. He spoke about being offended and hurt by others, and how we need to rely on the Savior.
How did this make me feel? Imagine a gaping, bleeding wound anywhere on your body. Now take a stiff wire brush and scrub that gaping, bleeding wound as hard as you can.
I didn't want to be schooled by my bishop, especially from the pulpit. As I had in previous weeks, I left after sacrament meeting.
Something had to change. Like cancer, this anger and resentment and unhappiness were eating away at my soul. It was affecting my health as well as my relationships with my family. And in all honesty I knew that no apologies were coming down the pipe. The complainers felt justified.
Knowing that I needed to get away from all of this, John and Glo let me make plans to fly out to Utah to see the kids. I felt like some physical distance from all of this would give me some clarity. Days before I left, I had an impression to reread The Hiding Place, a book written by Corrie Ten Boom following her imprisonment in a Nazi concentration camp. I went to the bookstore and bought a brand new copy to take with me on the trip.
Corrie Ten Boom was a Christian, living in the Netherlands during World War II. She and her family helped hide Jews from the Nazis, but when their efforts were eventually discovered, they were thrown into a concentration camp where her father and her sister, Betsie, both died. Her stories are well documented and quoted as she became a motivational speaker after the war, but I will share the one that touches me the most:
A couple of weeks earlier, while sitting at the organ, I had been given a beautiful moment by the Spirit. Amidst all the angst of sitting there, I was reading through the words of some random hymn, and a voice came into my mind, asking, "Have you felt to sing the song of redeeming love?"
Like Corrie, I didn't want to forgive. I didn't want to use the power of the Atonement to wash away all of the hurt and bad feelings I had. But as I reread Corrie's story, I knew that there was no other way. My spirit needed to move on from the indignation, and the pride, and the self-pity. It was time to sing the song of my Savior, and to forgive.
While in Utah, I took advantage of going to the temple, and while in the celestial room, I offered one of the most sincere prayers I could give to God. I begged his forgiveness for my sins. I knew that I had been the one in the wrong, harboring such bad feelings and being unwilling to listen to the promptings of the Spirit. And I offered up all those sins to the Savior. I couldn't hold back the tears as I thought of the pain I was contributing to his suffering, and yet at the same time, my heart filled with thankfulness for his willingness to take it all from me.
And if that wasn't bad enough, I asked him to take the cancer from my soul. I knew that I alone couldn't let go of the indignation. The grudge would continue to fester if He didn't cleanse my heart.
And in that moment, I felt it all leave me. All the hurt, all the pain, all the sadness, everything. It was just gone, and I was filled with peace.
And I knew then what it was to be thankful for this trial. I knew that through everything I had gone through, I had come to love my Savior even more. I couldn't deny that Heavenly Father had shown me his love for me through this. He knew that I needed this to grow.
A couple of weeks later, I was once again traveling, and I came across this thought from Dieter F. Uchtdorf:
Yes, Alma. I can feel it, and I'm thankful to feel the arms of my Savior circled about me. I am singing the song of redeeming love, and through the blessing of this trial, I bear testimony of the love that our Savior and our Heavenly Father have for us.
I was incredulous. In fact, I felt that she must be holier-than-thou, because no one in their right mind would be thankful for such a horrible thing.
Fast forward to the day I was abruptly released from my seminary calling. In the grand scheme of things, this experience surely is nothing in comparison to cancer, but I believe in my own sphere of living, it was one of the trickiest trials the Lord has given, or could have given me. After all, Heavenly Father knows us best. He knows where our weaknesses lay, and he knows how we will grow the most. I'm well acquainted with physical trials, and I power through them pretty well. Trials, however, that test my feelings of self-worth are cancer to my soul.
In the days following my release, John was my biggest support. In fact, he offered two perspectives that I couldn't see: 1) the calling had been incredibly stressful on me and the family, and wouldn't it be nice to not have that stress?, and 2) the kids who had complained about me didn't deserve what I had to give them. A kind of "pearls before swine" mentality.
John was brilliant. He didn't try to preach to me about trials, and being strong, and humbling myself before the Lord. He just had my back against the naysayers, and he was determined to convince me that I was better off without the calling. I love my man.
The crazy thing? In my mind, it worked. Within days, I felt a wave of peace come over me, and I couldn't deny that John was right. Being released WAS the right thing for me and my family, and it was an inspired release.
Except that I wouldn't allow myself to believe that.
That's right. I felt that I deserved to be indignant about the whole experience. What is indignation? Feeling or showing anger or annoyance at what is perceived as unfair treatment. While I rarely toot my own horn, or even believe that I should even be on this earth, I will own the fact that I was a really great seminary teacher. I gave everything to those kids, and you better believe that the seventeen kids who didn't complain about me appreciated my service. The indignation only grew as the letters, emails, phone calls and gifts started pouring in after my release was announced. The kids were so sad and confused about me being released, and it was hard to explain to them why I wasn't there anymore.
I felt that I deserved to be angry. It had been unfair. As someone said to me, the situation of my release was like the inmates running the prison, or the tail wagging the dog. I couldn't have agreed more.
The following Sunday, the theme of sacrament meeting was forgiveness. Oh my goodness, I wanted to crawl out of my skin, especially because one of the kids who hadn't supported me as a teacher was giving one of the talks. In fact, I was already suppressing anxiety attacks, so I walked out of the meeting. I got as far as I could from actually hearing the words of the talks while staying within earshot so I would know when to go back in to play the organ. Again, the Lord was trying to teach me as was the Spirit, but I didn't want to listen. Everything that I tried not to hear (but did hear) was exactly what I needed to hear, but I refused to listen.
I felt that before I forgave anyone, people needed to ask forgiveness of me. In other words, I felt entitled to hold a grudge.
The next two Sundays were pure torture. One of the parents who had complained about me gave a talk. Again, I walked out of the meeting. The following Sunday was ward conference, and it was a slap in the face, hearing the names of the ward leaders, two of whom were the complaining parents (along with their priesthood holding sons). For the first time in my life, I did NOT raise my hand to sustain someone. In my mind, they had not sustained me, and I would not raise my hand and then go back on that at some later date. It was a difficult thing to do, especially considering I was sitting up at the organ in front of everyone, but it meant something to me.
The following Sunday, I could hardly make it through the meeting. It had been several weeks at this point, and none of the naysayers had reached out to me at all. Not the bishop, and neither of the parents. I hated showing up for church, only to sit in front of everyone, playing the organ. Honestly, if it hadn't been for that calling, and for the fact that I couldn't stand the idea of Glo sitting alone in a pew, I would not have shown up. By the time I would sit down in the pew next to Glo, I was an anxious mess. And it was on this Sunday that the bishop decided to bear his testimony about healing. That's right....healing. And I knew as soon as he began speaking, that he was speaking directly to me. He spoke about being offended and hurt by others, and how we need to rely on the Savior.
How did this make me feel? Imagine a gaping, bleeding wound anywhere on your body. Now take a stiff wire brush and scrub that gaping, bleeding wound as hard as you can.
I didn't want to be schooled by my bishop, especially from the pulpit. As I had in previous weeks, I left after sacrament meeting.
Something had to change. Like cancer, this anger and resentment and unhappiness were eating away at my soul. It was affecting my health as well as my relationships with my family. And in all honesty I knew that no apologies were coming down the pipe. The complainers felt justified.
Corrie Ten Boom was a Christian, living in the Netherlands during World War II. She and her family helped hide Jews from the Nazis, but when their efforts were eventually discovered, they were thrown into a concentration camp where her father and her sister, Betsie, both died. Her stories are well documented and quoted as she became a motivational speaker after the war, but I will share the one that touches me the most:
"It was at a church service in Munich that I saw him, the former S.S. man who had stood guard at the shower room door in the processing center at Ravensbruck. He was the first of our actual jailers that I had seen since that time. And suddenly it was all there--the roomful of mocking men, the heaps of clothing, Betsie's pain-blanched face.
He came up to me as the church was emptying, beaming and bowing. 'How grateful I am for your message, Fraulein,' he said. 'To think that, as you say, He has washed my sins away!'
His hand was thrust out to shake mine. And I, who had preached so often to the people in Bloemendaal the need to forgive, kept my hand at my side.
Even as the angry, vengeful thoughts boiled through me, I saw the sin of them. Jesus Christ had died for this man; was I going to ask for more? Lord Jesus, I prayed, forgive me and help me to forgive him.
I tried to smile, I struggled to raise my hand. I could not. I felt nothing, not the slightest spark of warmth or charity. And so again I breathed a silent prayer. Jesus, I cannot forgive him. Give Your forgiveness.
As I took his hand the most incredible thing happened. From my shoulder along my arm and through my hand, a current seemed to pass from me to him, while into my heart sang a love for this stranger that almost overwhelmed me.
And so I discovered that it is not on our forgiveness any more than on our goodness that the world's healing hinges, but on His. When He tells us to love our enemies, He gives, along with the command, the love itself."
A couple of weeks earlier, while sitting at the organ, I had been given a beautiful moment by the Spirit. Amidst all the angst of sitting there, I was reading through the words of some random hymn, and a voice came into my mind, asking, "Have you felt to sing the song of redeeming love?"
Like Corrie, I didn't want to forgive. I didn't want to use the power of the Atonement to wash away all of the hurt and bad feelings I had. But as I reread Corrie's story, I knew that there was no other way. My spirit needed to move on from the indignation, and the pride, and the self-pity. It was time to sing the song of my Savior, and to forgive.
While in Utah, I took advantage of going to the temple, and while in the celestial room, I offered one of the most sincere prayers I could give to God. I begged his forgiveness for my sins. I knew that I had been the one in the wrong, harboring such bad feelings and being unwilling to listen to the promptings of the Spirit. And I offered up all those sins to the Savior. I couldn't hold back the tears as I thought of the pain I was contributing to his suffering, and yet at the same time, my heart filled with thankfulness for his willingness to take it all from me.
And if that wasn't bad enough, I asked him to take the cancer from my soul. I knew that I alone couldn't let go of the indignation. The grudge would continue to fester if He didn't cleanse my heart.
And in that moment, I felt it all leave me. All the hurt, all the pain, all the sadness, everything. It was just gone, and I was filled with peace.
And I knew then what it was to be thankful for this trial. I knew that through everything I had gone through, I had come to love my Savior even more. I couldn't deny that Heavenly Father had shown me his love for me through this. He knew that I needed this to grow.
A couple of weeks later, I was once again traveling, and I came across this thought from Dieter F. Uchtdorf:
What the Savior did from Gethsemane to Golgotha on our behalf is beyond my ability to grasp. He took upon Himself the burden of our sins and paid an eternal and binding ransom not only for Adam's original transgression but also for the sins and transgressions of the billions upon billions of souls who have ever lived. This eternal, sacred sacrifice caused "even God, the greatest of all, to tremble because of pain, and to bleed at every pore, and to suffer both body and spirit" (D&C 19:18)
He suffered for me.
He suffered for you.
It humbles me to know that all who accept this gift and incline their hearts to Him can be forgiven and cleansed of their sins, no matter how dark their blemish, or how oppressive their burden.Alma asked the question: And now behold, I say unto you, my brethren, if ye have experienced a change of heart, and if ye have felt to sing the song of redeeming love, I would ask, can ye feel so now?
Yes, Alma. I can feel it, and I'm thankful to feel the arms of my Savior circled about me. I am singing the song of redeeming love, and through the blessing of this trial, I bear testimony of the love that our Savior and our Heavenly Father have for us.
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