There have been many moments of sorrow and tears lost in dark closets. There have also been profound, heart-pounding times of joy. And lately, as I’ve reflected on it all, I’ve wondered: Was I faithful enough? Am I faithful enough? Could my faith stand in the deepest of waters, trusting fully in the abounding grace of the Lord that I would call upon Him as I’m led deeper? Or would I drown?

In these meditative moments, I’ve felt a gentle but resounding answer:

I do not mean for you to endure alone.

I needed my Christmas baby. 

It was the most special Christmas and it wasn’t because of all the things we checked off our Christmas calendar, but it was because our family had been given a reminder of what it is all about. While I still love to do all of the Christmas activities and look forward to them, I will never forget that Christmas.  If we don’t get to all of the activities or traditions, I let go of the guilt because it’s not what I need.  I need to find the magic in my kids serving one another, the magic in us going forward in faith and putting our trust in Him not knowing where our paths will lead us, the magic in our stories and taking time to reflect and ponder on what is important in our lives, and to take time to ponder about the miracle baby- our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and His faithful mother, Mary.

My charismatic non-denominational church family doesn’t have many liturgical style traditions, but every year on Christmas Eve, we host a small, low-key candlelight service. I love it. In the midst of the crazy hullabaloo of buying presents, welcoming friends and family from afar, prepping a ridiculous amount of food, all while navigating snow and ice, we gather to remember Emmanuel—God with us.

After the long season of praying, “Restore to me the joy of my salvation,” I’m not sure I was expecting my prayer to be answered. But that Christmas Eve of my senior year in college, I was surprised by God’s presence as we began to sing.

Throughout the whole next day I prayed and wrestled. The idea of religious intergenerational trauma was new to me. I’d never considered religious division as a spiritual seminal wound before. I thought about the cruel responses by some traditional Christians, in the name of God, during the establishment of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My heart filled my throat as God’s compassion in me grew. 

I went on walks in the woods as I had done years before, and in the quiet stillness I listened. God spoke peace to my soul and reassured me of His sovereignty. I declared powerful truths aloud until my heart really believed them. “Thank you God for working all things together for my good (Romans 8:28). I will not fear, because you are with me (Isaiah 41:10). You are my shield and my stronghold (Psalm 18:2). Jesus, you said that mountains can move with a small amount of faith” (Matthew 17:20). I internalized the possibility of God moving my mountain and visualized being healed. The God who parted the Red Sea could make a way for me to walk through surgery unharmed. 

Written story and photographs here:
https://www.thefaithcollective.org/the-faith-collective/let-god-be-magnified

Why could I not control this?

I felt stuck. Hopeless. Ridiculous.

Then, in His unmatched and unexpected way, the Lord stepped in to deliver me from bondage. 

I remembered a friend who had spoken of similar struggles with food and body image. I reached out to her immediately and she lovingly shared her experience in a 12-step program for food addiction recovery. My decision to join the program was influenced entirely by my trust in her. 

At the end of my senior year the anxiety was especially high as I prepared to graduate, to leave my family and home, and to start a new life at college. I felt like everything was coming too quick. Too much change was about to happen and I wouldn’t be able to deal with the stress of it all. I wasn’t happy with who I was and didn’t feel I was ready for it all. I remember one night praying, begging, crying to my Heavenly Father that I might feel His love for me and to know that He is aware of me and my struggles.

But we all have a story. I do have a story. My story is made up of many small moments that make it mine and nobody else’s. Those small moments, along with the people around me, both in heaven and on earth, have helped my faith grow and make me who I am. 

It would be impossible to list all those little details and simple experiences, so I  will share just this one. It is simple, but it means so much to me.

In the winter of 2017 I started battling depressive thoughts for the first time. I would come home to my beautiful luxury sky rise studio apartment, throw myself on the couch and cry for hours. I felt lonely, empty and hopeless. It felt like Heavenly Father had forgotten about me. It felt like all my friends were having children, getting married or had amazing jobs, and I was getting left behind. I had wasted time, made too many mistakes and that Heavenly Father was disgusted with me. 

I always say that it’s the things we don’t expect that make life tough. We can mentally prepare ourselves for many types of life situations or circumstances but still there will be things we don’t see coming and those things always seem to be the most difficult. In my case, I never planned to be single at the age of 30. In fact, I remember seeing women in their mid-20s when I was younger and feeling so sorry for them.