But, but, but...

It has been a hot, hot, hot minute since I've written anything on this blog. Since my last post, life has just taken off. We have two toddlers. Corey got promoted. I started a new Instagram dedicated to books. Charlotte started speech therapy. We moved to Utah. I'm going back to school. We bought a house. Coronavirus turned the world upside down, and we're still navigating this new normal. It's been quite the journey.

But you know what else has changed since my last post over a year and a half ago? My heart. My opinions. The way I see others and the way they live their lives.

There's a common phrase used in the Christian culture:

Love the sinner. Hate the sin.

Let me tell you why this phrase is rather toxic and frankly fosters erasure.

Last month alone was a whirlwind of movements for change. We experienced the height of the Black Lives Matter movement, fighting for an end to systemic racism and police brutality, and the month of June is Pride to celebrate and advocate for the LGBTQ+ community.

Sidenote: It's been five years since the Supreme Court ruling that made gay marriage legal in all fifty states, and just last week, the Supreme Court of the United States ruled that an employer cannot discriminate against an employee based on their sexual orientation or gender identity.

Corey and I started a new nightly ritual last month where we have watched one episode of Queer Eye each evening after the kids go to bed. Let me tell you. That show has me in tears by the end of nearly every episode. We have both fallen in love with Karamo, Tan, Jonathan, Bobbi, and Antoni. Each of these queer men have had unique experiences, exhibit love and compassion to the people they serve on this show, and have honestly helped us see a whole different side to the people who identify as LGBTQ+.

Because they're just that. People.

Ever since Christian died, my opinions and biases have gradually shifted. There's something about losing someone you loved so dearly to suicide, knowing they were hurting in such a way that they made a choice to take their own life. It changes you. It makes you understand that validation is a crucial component of being a compassionate, loving, Christlike human.

You're probably wondering, 'Okay, Sarah. I'm sorry for your loss. It's sad but wonderful that you have made something of your brother's death, buuuuut what does any of this have to do with this phrase: Love the sinner. Hate the sin?'

I'm getting to that. I promise.

The very first words in the introductory lesson full-time missionaries from the LDS faith teach their investigators are: "God is our Heavenly Father. We are his children."

As His children, we are commanded to love our neighbor. We cannot truly and fully love someone by condemning, by hating a part of who they are. It just isn't possible. If every time you meet up with your gay friend and think, "I love him so much, but gosh, I just wish he weren't in a relationship with another man. Can't he just learn to live happily and confidently alone?"

There are no I love you buts in following the second greatest commandment the Savior Himself extended to us when He gave the higher law. When the Law of Moses was essentially thrown out and replaced, the nitty-gritty specifics of discipleship went right with it. This higher law is what I like to call the heart law. What matters most in how we live our lives, walking in the footsteps of the Savior is not only how we treat one another, but how we think of one another.

We are all sinners. No one is perfect. Everyone is fallible. You make mistakes. I make mistakes. In the words of Jean from The Perfect Man, "I make whoppers." Because of my status as a sinner, I would be a hypocrite to say, 'Well, I love you, but I hate xyz about you.'

We just cannot foster a community of love based on but, but, but. If you are loving your neighbor, whether you are a Democrat, Republican, LGBTQ+ and in a relationship, single parent by choice, supporting various movements for change, believe in women's reproductive rights, have given up a child, have an addiction...

I could go on and on and on. But if you are loving your neighbor in a way that does them no harm by showing genuine care and compassion, you are loving God. It's that simple.

Next time you read a news story about or meet someone who is different than you, put yourself in the Savior's shoes. He atoned for everybody, but let us remember that the Atonement of Jesus Christ was not only for sins. It was for all the pains, the hurt, the discomforts, the sicknesses we will ever face in our lifetimes.

Imagine the pains of a transgender person being intentionally misgendered on a daily basis because their identity is invalid and "crazy".

Imagine the hurt of a lesbian woman announcing she is in a relationship with another woman, and instead of support, she is met with malice, ridicule, and Bible verses.

Imagine the discomfort of a Black man every time he is stopped by a police officer, feeling an aching anxiety that there is a chance he might not go home to his family.

Imagine the sickness, or rather, the mental toll of a person being invalidated because their life, their love, their belief is wrong, apostate, sinful, disgusting.

Look inward. Are you contributing to those feelings that Christ suffered for without cost to anybody but Himself? His love in that garden was absolutely unconditional.

Love the sinner. Hate nothing. Embrace who they are.

Let's normalize that way of thinking, especially in the Christian community.

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Love Anyway

Choices. Life is full of them. There are so many instances where we find ourselves at a fork in the road trying to decide whether we should go this way or that way--and do you know what's great about that? The choice is entirely our own.
Of course our choices can affect those around us, but when we chose to follow the Savior, we chose agency--not only for ourselves, but for everyone.
This has been weighing on my mind a lot lately with the political climate rising, causing much discord among those of differing religious views.
But I'm not here to talk about politics.
Just choices. Only choices.
The fact that we even have the freedom to choose our own paths is such an amazing gift given from God Himself. He wants us to be happy and comfortable and the great thing about our loving Heavenly Father is just that--He loves us. No matter what. Nothing will separate us from the love of God (Romans 8:38-39). He loves all of His children, whether on the path I follow or on a different path.
The ultimate goal our Father in Heaven has for us is eternal life, not just immortality--to inherit everything He has. But I think it's easy to forget that He wants all of us to be happy in this life, too.
May I be frank?
Not everyone is happy in the Church.
It is so much easier said than done to hold on when there are serious doubts. We have to be understanding.
Some would consider themselves spiritual giants--that no matter what questions arise, there is absolutely no way their foundation could crumble. But that isn't the case for everyone.
How can we be more understanding?
Something I have learned over the years is that being supportive and loving of the decisions of another--even if you do not agree--is far more Christlike than shoving my beliefs down someone's throat.
So a friend of yours goes to Starbucks every day. So they get a coffee.
So a man loves a man. So he wants to be with him.
So an active member goes to see Beautiful Boy. So it's rated R.
So a loved one has major doubts about the gospel. So they want to forsake their membership.
So you don't agree.
Love. Anyway.
The Lord said He would forgive whom He would forgive, but we are commanded to forgive all men (D&C 64:10). If we truly feel someone is doing something against our religious principles, love anyway because that is the epitome of forgiveness.
We should never resent someone for the choices they make to walk a different path, and we should most certainly never push.
Imagine a physical altercation where someone pushes another person. The victim is forced further away from the other. Such it is with the gospel of Jesus Christ. When we push--even if we feel it is out of love and concern--it only causes them to put more distance between themself and what we hold dear.
I remember when I was a teenager and my mom threw all of my short shorts away because she wanted me to dress modestly. That only pushed me over the edge where I would wear one thing to a friend's and then change into their clothes to go out. What my mom thought was helping only made it worse. In the next few years, my mom would learn the difference between invitation and force.
My mom would become as patient as she could while I tried to figure out who I wanted to be, what I wanted to believe, and how I wanted to live. Because she took a step back while still being a parent, I became less distant and even confided in her about my life, and even gained a testimony that would later send me to Idaho to serve a mission.
Despite my choices, she loved me anyway.
Our purpose as members of the Church, and missionaries if you will, is to "invite others to come unto Christ."
Invite, invite, invite.
When we talk about the gospel with another, let's not do it with the intention of guilting them into grabbing onto the rod. We must do it with the intention to increase their faith that will inevitably send them reaching for the gospel.
If there is someone you care about walking the path opposite yours, do them (and yourself) a favor:
Support and love them anyway.

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Shaping My Identity

This week in my psychology class, we're talking about personality. The idea my proessor shared with us the other day is that who we are has an effect on what kind of personality we have, which begged the question that she wrote up on the board. Who are you?
Underneath the question, she wrote, "I am...". She asked us to finish this sentence twenty times. Sounds like a lot, right?
So I started writing.
I am...a wife.
I am...a mother.
I am...a Mormon.
I am...a daughter of God.
I am...a suicide survivor.
I stopped, and I literally almost cried. Right there. In the middle of class. I just needed a break. I couldn't believe I had literally just taken pen to paper and had written those words. I've blogged about my experience with being left behind because of suicide, but there's just something about seeing the phrase handwritten in my personal script.
In trying hard not to release any tears, I looked down and saw that I was not only wearing my most recent Out of the Darkness t-shirt, but I was also wearing the jacket I had earned as an incentive for raising a certain amount of money for the organization.
I picked up my pencil and continued writing.
I am...an advocate.
I am...the change.
I did feel a little silly giving myself so much credit, but that thought went away rather quickly.
When my brother died, the only thing that kept me going is advocating for those who struggle with the same things he did. His death and the way it happened--as much as I hate it--is a part of my identity. I will never be the person I was before his suicide. Never.
But why be dealt a card that you have to live with for the rest of your life and not make something worthwhile out of it?
I've literally decided to take the sourest of lemons and make lemonade, and that's through being the change in how the world views suicide, and how it can be prevented.
The shift in my identity since Christian died is the sole reason why I drafted post after post asking for donations to a foundation I truly believe is making a difference. It's the reason why I changed my major. It's the reason why I share so many mental health articles on social media. It's the reason why I'm so concerned with my friends when I know they're having a difficult time--even if it is just because of an upcoming exam causing unrelenting stress.
Just like with any of the other "I am..." phrases I came up with, my identity drives me to act. Being a wife leads me to check in with my husband to make sure he'll be okay if I go out with a girlfriend. Being a mom means putting my child before myself, talking mostly about them on social media, and missing them even when I'm gone for a few hours. Being a Mormon means everything in my life is centered on my beliefs--what I wear, what movies I see, how I spend my Sundays. Being a daughter of God means that I come from heavenly parents, who love me, that I am divine, and I try to treat myself as such.
Being a suicide survivor means I can't stand idly by and watch other families suffer the way mine has. It's who I am, and it's who I've been shaping up to become over the past year and a half since I was struck by suicide.
What experiences have you had that have shaped your identity to be what it is today? Who are you?

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Saturday

Sunday morning rolled around and my eyes grew heavier and heavier as I tried to wake myself up to get ready for 9 a. m. church after a long night with the baby. I turned to look at Corey as he slept soundly next to me and then to the baby in her crib -- out. I allowed the drowsiness to claim my body and I opted for another hour of sleep. We would go to the eleven o'clock ward again.
When I woke up, my phone read that it was nine thirty. The baby had woken up. It was time for a bottle. I fed her. I burped her. I needed to shower.
I handed Charly off to her dad while I greeted the hot shower with glee. I needed to be rid of my sluggishness. The high-and-sometimes-uncomfortable water pressure could do just that in a matter of mere moments, and can be oddly refreshing although painful.
As I tried to make myself presentable enough to sit in the chapel, I heard the baby begin to cry from her swing. I set my curling iron on the ground and gave Charly her pacifier to calm her just long enough for me to get one more wave in. Getting ready would prove to be challenging.
By the time we made it out the door, church had already begun and the baby was still in her pajamas. She would definitely stay in the car seat during sacrament!
We pulled into the parking lot, reverently walked into the building, and sat down on the sofa by the entryway just in time to sing along to the sacrament hymn. I found my stress from the morning swept away by the Spirit I felt as we prepared to renew our covenants.
We chose to remain in the foyer for the duration of the meeting while Charly tried to fall asleep. The previous week she had gotten fussy while the sacrament was being passed, and my anxiety flared up. I had raced out of the room with her in tow as to avoid collecting judgment from those who expected absolute silence. Anxiety told me it was better safe than sorry.
As we listened to the speakers, I felt peace, but it was quickly interrupted by a few straggling members of the ward we were supposed to attend. I wasn't bothered by their conversation by any means, but rather the volume at which they spoke to one another. Corey and I continued to sit quietly, it becoming increasingly difficult to hear what the speaker was trying to convey to his audience. The Spirit was gone, and my stress came racing back.
Usually I am not one to become irritated when I am in the foyer during sacrament meeting and people decide to socialize at a high decibel. So why was I particularly upset yesterday?
It's the week.
That week.
The week I've been dreading.
I have found my patience to be very limited in several capacities this month. This was one of them. Perhaps I thought that if I listened intently, I would hear or feel something that would make getting through the week--especially Saturday--a little easier, a little less grim.
Driving home from church was anything but pleasant. Apologies kept finding their way out of my mouth after turning a cold shoulder to my husband numerous times in less than twenty minutes.
But how could I turn my attitude around when I am mentally shivering at the thought of even acknowledging what Saturday is and what it means?
I unbuckled the baby from her car seat as soon as we set her down inside the apartment and took her straight to the bedroom to change her diaper. I buttoned her onesie up and saw she was rather alert so I put her hands in mine and started to play with her arms.
She smiled for the first time as a reaction to me--and she kept smiling as I moved her arms up and down, side to side. It was just what I needed to make the day more pleasant and be reminded that the Lord is in all the details of our lives--meaning He sent Charly to us just in time.
Honestly, I have no idea what I would do this week while Corey's working if I didn't have our little girl to keep my mind--for the most part--occupied. Based on what I saw myself conform to yesterday when only the thought of Saturday instilled fear in me, I know now that the Lord didn't bless me with pregnancy just to comfort me during nine of the months following my brother's death, but He blessed me with Charly when He did because He knew the year mark would be unbearable without her.
This month, Charly has grown in so many different ways. It has been nothing short of a blessing to witness her different milestones the past few weeks.
I wouldn't be so bold as to say she's been a distraction from the fact that my brother is gone, but her being here has helped me in various ways to lessen the pain grief has brought over the last year.
I never thought motherhood would be entirely healing--and it's not--but the Lord knew that this calling would give me the ability to better navigate the road of loss and alleviate some of the emotional suffering.
I do not know how I would get through any of this without the knowledge that God exists--and more than His reality, that He loves me. I barely made it through the first few months following Christian's death when I let my anger cast a shadow over His outstretched arm. I will say it again: He is in all the details of our lives. I know He's been in mine.
Even sitting in the foyer of the church while loud conversations were taking place, I felt His hand--I felt His hand because I was there. The gospel gave me a reason to be in the building at all to partake of His goodness. I felt His hand because I took the sacrament. I renewed my covenants.
That was enough to be grateful for--and I was reminded that I can rely on the Atonement this week, on Saturday, and always.

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Absolutely Terrified

Can I be honest? Like brutally honest? Okay good, because I'd be shocked if anybody told me not to be considering my blog is built on honesty.
I'm scared to have this baby. Like terrified. But not for the reasons you might think.
I'm not scared for the contractions that will make me want to scream in someone's face. I'm not scared to push a baby out of my body. I'm not scared to be a mom.
What am I so afraid of then, you might ask?
I'm terrified of bringing Charly into this world--a world without my baby brother. I've been dreading the day she'll come...but with anticipation no less.
It literally makes no sense to me that I would be so focused on the negative than on the positive, and believe me, I'm trying to flip the script, but it's easier said than done.
My mom had posted on Facebook earlier that she can't wait to welcome this bundle of joy fresh from heaven, and I guess that's what sparked the feeling that I should share my thoughts with you.
To feel with every fiber of my being that heaven is real has been the single most comforting thing in the wake of my brother's death. I've been given witness after witness that there is a place we go after we leave this life, and because of that, naturally I've been thinking about where we came from. And that answer, too, is heaven.
So why am I still so terrified?
There will never be pictures. No memories. She'll look at a family picture when she's able to put names to faces, look at Christian and say, "Mommy, who is that?" I don't think any amount of time can or will pass before that question will stop me from making a run for the first pillow I can cry into.
Sure, I've been told time after time that Charly's getting to know Christian now, and while that's comforting, it's equally disconcerting that she will forget any encounter she might have had with my little brother upon coming here to be with my family.
But then my mom said something that struck me and made my heart a little more grateful.
I've been having false labor contractions, but my parents didn't want to take a chance of missing the delivery of their grandbaby if said contractions were to shift into true ones. As my mom talked with me on the phone about leaving earlier than planned she said through choked back tears:

"I don't want to miss this because...Charly will be the last one to have seen my son." 

While I feared for the future of my child stripped of the privilege to know her uncle--or rather fearing for myself welcoming a future for my child who will never know her uncle in this life--my mom instilled gratitude in me with her words. My child will be the last one to have been with and interacted with Christian, and for that I am truly grateful. I suppose I need to learn how to stomp out my jealousy and anger with gratitude.
It's been a long, rocky road the past ten months. Regardless, I am reminded as I write this post how lucky and blessed I am to have been afforded the opportunity to carry this baby for the last thirty-eight weeks--something I know so many women are not able to do.
This is why we have moms. They help us change our perceptions on situations that may otherwise cause emotional chaos.

Thanks, Mom.

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Mending the Cracks

I often wonder why I never gave up on the gospel while I was going through my anger phase for roughly six months. Although I didn't have burning questions about the history of the Church, or whether Joseph Smith saw God and Jesus Christ or made it all up, I am still confused as to why I didn't leave when I was so angry with God.

This was a thought that entered my mind while the spirit was tormenting me during sacrament meeting to bear my testimony, but I declined to do so. Why? 

This is still of a very personal nature to me as I tackle head-on my challenges with Heavenly Father--although, they were never with God, but with His opponent.  

However, I digress. 

I didn't follow the prompting to bear my testimony because I simply am not ready. The Lord may know I am, but I don't yet. I'm just not there. I'm not at the point where I can vocalize my thoughts, but only translate them into writing. 

I have never thought as promptings as "little commandments" but instead, I have always seen them as the Lord giving me opportunities to make changes whether in myself or instill impressions in others. I didn't take that opportunity to change anything in that meeting, and maybe I should have, but I feel more comfortable doing it from this outlet for the time being.

Instead of walking up to the pulpit, I allowed the spirit to fester, and I pondered the strength and position of my testimony. I thought about how it was possible that I stayed in the gospel when I didn't want God to be part of my life after "what He did". Why did I still listen to the prophet? Why did I still admire the temple? Why did I still pick up my scriptures from time to time? 

It just didn't make sense to me. 

Allowing time for meditation during sacrament meeting today gave me an opportunity to reflect, and put the pieces together.

I stayed because Jesus Christ is my foundation. 

Because I didn't care to see to my testimony being nourished during this time, each building block of my testimony got a crack or two, but my foundation remained in tact. With a solid foundation, it was more difficult, near impossible, for Satan to break my tower of faith. 

Instead of having to build my testimony again, I just needed to mend it. By having a sure foundation, the blocks didn't crumble, and I was more easily able to simply mend the cracks--of course with the help of the Savior through His Atonement. 

I think all too often we give up too quickly. Perhaps had I allowed the anger to fester longer my foundation might have crumbled eventually leaving nothing but spiritual dust. But I saved my own testimony in time before the destruction could have transpired. I am so grateful for that.

I find it interesting that, for me, my problem was with God, yet I still trusted His son--and it literally makes no logical sense because God is the one who sent Christ out of pure love for His children. 

This just serves as a testament to me that I am too vulnerable as a mortal to just choose to walk away when I have a spiff with some part of the doctrine, or in my case, a person. I cannot bring myself to do so because I know I would be making the wrong choice--even if my relationship with God is or was weak. 

Jesus truly does save. 

He saved me from choosing the wrong path. He saved me from abandoning my worth as a daughter of God. He saved me from the torment I would have experienced for the remainder of my life from throwing away the hope of a life after death, or that eternal families is a true principle stemming from his earthly ministry. He saved my testimony. He saved me from deserting the one pure thing in my life: the gospel. 

The gospel of Jesus Christ is the only thing that can bring everlasting peace. 

The road has been so incredibly rocky since last summer, but despite the ditches and the bumps, Christ has been there through it all. He knows me personally, and because of this, He understands exactly how to succor me.

Although it was a process, I'm there. 

The cracks are mended, and not with glue. The cracks are literally gone. 

I'm beginning to feel more like who I was before it all went wrong. I'm beginning to see the joy in my demeanor when I get ready in the morning. I'm beginning to acquire that fire I left behind at the onset of my grief.

The cracks are mended, and I am changed. 

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Be the Change

I'm in awe at the response my last few posts have received. I am happy to note that my life has been less in shambles and the pieces are being put back in place with a little help from on High. The past month and a half has been difficult with school weighing on my shoulders, though much more bearable now that I'm on speaking terms with the Man upstairs. He's the key to travelling a bumpy road with joy.
It's quite obvious that life isn't all rainbows and butterflies. I've always hated the phrase: "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade"...especially since my family, immediate and extended, has lost so much in such little time. However, I've come to appreciate that phrase. Life handed us the sourest of lemons last summer--two, in fact. As my soul purses its lips in aspiration to be redeemed from the sourness, I begin to think, what can I make of this? 
Many of you know I've been studying English as an undergraduate, and I thought for the longest time it was the right degree to pursue. I love to write. I love to share my insights. But as the time passes, especially since grief was thrown in my basket, I took inventory of my passions.

English--as a whole--is not one of them.

It is true that I love books, and I love blogging, but that's basically where I hit a block in the road. I don't feel like there's anywhere to go from here--at least not for me.
How can I take my two passions, words and insight, and do good?
Gandhi said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world."
I never felt that I could really be the change with the degree I had chosen unless I were to sit at home and be a mommy blogger all day. Except my posts aren't suitable for that sort of career--neither is my mindset. We all know the most successful mommy bloggers are those who generate new ideas for decorating a home or spicing up a relationship--both of which are so not me, and let's face it, when I do have those ideas, they're entirely recycled from others (especially from Pinterest).
It's not ingrained into my personal being as a young woman in today's society to be a stay-at-home mom for the next thirty plus years. I personally believe that motherhood and a career can be complimentary of one another. I plan to merge the two--and when I set my mind to something, I achieve it. I want more for me, and I want more for my children. There's no doubt I'm a woman of action.
Since being hit in the face with depression from the outside and its opposite, I have decided that I want to shift gears a bit--okay, a lot--and focus my career on preventing other families from suffering a loss such as mine. Even more so than preventing grief, I want so badly to help adolescents like my brother who are fighting strenuously to combat and cope with their mental illnesses and other trials which could lead to depression, anxiety, and other disorders.
Today, I changed the course of my life; I changed my major. I changed my major to something that will allow me the opportunity to exercise my passion of advocacy for the mentally ill. I changed my major to something that will allow me to make hands-on change--to be the change. I have chosen to pursue a BS in Marriage and Family Studies, then go on to receive my Masters in a similar area, if not counseling.
Never in my high school career had I thought to engage in any coursework outside the realm of English, yet here I am four years later going against my adolescent judgment.
I have found it increasingly interesting that out of all my English courses that I have drooled over in boredom and disinterest, the one that ever intrigued me was my Young Adult Literature course where I learned how to use literature to help teens in various aspects of their lives. I didn't know then why I felt that way. All I know is it led me to where I am today: an aspiring counselor for adolescents.

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