This is a story I don't tell much if at all. It's very personal to me and religious in nature. If that's a problem for you, just take this warning and stop now. I am not opening what I believe to debate or criticism. If that's your goal this is not the place for you. I will not tolerate that. Anyways! Let me begin.
I've been watching and reading different things all over the internet lately mostly relating to being a girl in a rather cruel world and typically they bring tears to my eyes for all different kinds of reasons. After like the third night in a row of watching and reading, I felt a need to share this story with the world.
I must preface with this. I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. In other words, I'm a Mormon. I've been raised in this church, both my parents are members. We've actively participated in this church for as long as I can remember. I believe in the Book of Mormon as another testament of Jesus Christ with the Bible being that first one. I know that Christ is my Savior and God is my father. I know that when I pray, my Heavenly Father hears me and listens. More importantly, I know that he answers my prayers. I know that my Heavenly Father loves me. I know that he cares. I know he is acutely aware of me and what I'm going through. I know when I feel like I have no where else to turn, I can always always always go to Him.
But I didn't always know this.
When I was eight years old, I was baptized as a person to be counted officially among the number members of the LDS Church. I was confirmed with the laying on of hands to receive the gift of the Holy Ghost which we believe allows us to have the Holy Ghost as a guide and resource through the perilous and troubling world as we grow. I always hear people tell these amazing, spiritual stories of when they were baptized. They felt immediately clean and this warmth rush over them. They felt the spirit so surely and so strongly. But all I remember about that day is how cold I felt.
That was in the second grade. Either during the third or fourth grade (I can't remember which) I was learning to ride a bike. Similar to swimming, this is something that just sort of got interrupted because we moved so I was learning but I was behind. I wasn't very good. I was constantly crashing into mail boxes and parked cars. Then, one fateful Saturday, I was getting ready to go out and practice riding with assistance from my Dad. I put on a set of sweats because it was a little chilly and put my hair in a low pony tail to keep it out of my face. Then, I remembered learning something at church.
We had talked about how God will answer our prayers. We read a story in the Book of Mormon about these 2000 Stripling Warriors. They were righteous young men that took up weapons of war so that their parents wouldn't have to break a covenant that they wouldn't. Before battle, they prayed that the Lord would protect them. Previously I had been told that we can apply what's in the scriptures to our own lives and how God is the same now as he was then.
Well, I decided that since this was the case I would make it work for me. Obviously, I hated falling off my bike. I felt like a loser because I couldn't ride a bike yet and every time I fell it just made it worse. Before I went out in the front to try riding my bike, I read my scriptures in that same place where the story was. Then, I prayed. I prayed that God would protect me like he had the Stripling Warriors. I prayed that He would keep me from falling. I prayed that I wouldn't get hurt. At the close of this prayer, I felt confident that things were going to go really well that day.
I crashed that day harder than I ever had previously or ever would again. My dad was pushing my bike up the hill we lived on and let go when it seemed like I was doing well. I quickly lost complete control of the bike and was swerving all over the place. I slammed into the asphalt and slid up the hill on my face. I walked away from the scene with a huge fat lip, two black eyes, road rash down the side of my face and on my arms, and now looking back we think I might have broken my nose a little bit.
I don't remember how much my lip hurt or the bruises or scrapes except for the sting when we had to clean them. But I remember how terrible I felt inside. I didn't understand. I thought I must have done something wrong because in my mind God obviously didn't protect me. He didn't answer my prayer. He could have kept me from grinding my face in the ground but he didn't. And I couldn't fathom how that was possible. At the ripe age of nine or ten, I had a faith testing experience and it broke me.
I struggled to pray on my own and believe anyone was listening. I struggled to read the scriptures at anything more than face value. I no longer believed that God was listening to me or that he cared. I didn't think that he was looking out for me. In my mind, he obviously had much better things to be doing than watch over pathetic little me.
Even now, as I think about that time in my life, I get choked up. No one knew what I was feeling because I didn't tell anyone. I didn't tell my parents, I didn't tell any of my bishops, I didn't tell my best friends, I didn't even write it down in a journal. But I remember it crystal clear and it stings like cleaning that fat lip.
Years down the road, I was fifteen years old and my father was out of work. He had briefly been employed at a company in Chicago but it didn't work out and so we were back on the job hunt. There was a job he was interviewing for in California and as a family we were supposed to pray that he would get the job. When we would pray together before bed each night and it was my turn, I would do as I was supposed to and pray that he would get the job but I never meant it. Honestly, I didn't want to move. I barely remember when we lived in California before and my whole life was in Illinois. I felt like if we moved to California my life would be over.
One night, I decided to give it a shot one more time. I prayed on my own before laying down to sleep and, after hesitating for an inner battle that felt like it lasted forever, I prayed that he would get the job in California. And I meant it this time. I felt like this one prayer wouldn't make a difference. There was as much chance of him getting the job now that I had prayed with feeling as there had been before.
The next day, my mom gets a call from my dad and they're talking. He got the job in California. To be completely honest, I was heartbroken because I didn't want to move. I know this sounds mildly silly but I felt like I was responsible for my dad getting the job. I felt like (I still feel like) he got the job because it's what I had prayed for. Only after I had calmed down about moving was I able to realize what that meant.
God was (IS) listening. God was (IS) watching out for me. God did (DOES) care about me. I matter and someone out there besides me really truly believed (BELIEVES) that. Everything I remember about prayers being answered for me comes after that. It wasn't over night but slowly all that I believed as what can be deemed a naive eight year old came back. I could again pray to God and believe that He would hear me and answer me. It was still a good bit of time before I knew that I was a daughter of God and that he loves me but I was back on that track.
I don't know why I fell that day. I know that if anyone could have prevented it, Heavenly Father could have. But he didn't. I don't know what the purpose is or was. I know for things to go contrary to what we've prayed for, it means God has different plans. I don't know the meaning for any of the pieces of what I went through.
I do know that I've come out the other side of what was a very difficult and spiritually dark time in my life. As I stated earlier, I know who I am and more importantly whose I am better than I ever have before. And I know that this is what matters most. The other stuff I've gone through, all the crap, it makes up my story and is a part of who I am. But at the same time it does not define me. It does not stop me. It will not hold me back anymore than it already has.
