Horrible night

I am weary and tired in my heart, soul and mind.

More than that, I am heartsick.

My life is of no consequence.

I do not measure up.

All that I thought was for good is of naught. And I feel frustrated. I can only imagine how my Father in Heaven must feel when He sees the mess I have made of the portion of creation He granted to me for my care and keeping.

Ahead of anything, of any other consideration, of an single brilliant moment I may have experienced is the soul-crushing belief that I am wasting all that I am, all that I could be now and everything that I should become simply because I am unable to muster the fortitude to reach out and take the opportunities that are there.

But who determines my worth?

Even if the circumstances suddenly open up to me to 'change my life', I feel vastly under-developed to the task at hand. Would success in any other venue create a gateway to the happiness I am supposed to be feeling which I am evidently lacking in my life?

Last night was no fun.

Not one bit.

Driven to my knees in tears and begging God for relief and crying out the name of my Savior for deliverance from who I am and who I have become, I finally asked in my desperation for a priesthood blessing from my sleeping husband. Rick is the soul of generosity in the odd hours of the night between waking and sleeping. Never once has he refused my pleading for his help through the priesthood he bears. And even when it takes time to feel the fruition of the blessing pronounced upon me, I do eventually feel it. Then comes peace.

I have been in tears as I have tried in vain to add up the sum of my life and make of it something that is of use and that matters.

Sadly, like the "littlest angel", I find that my box of treasure is nothing but the worthless bits of life that only have meaning to me. The heavenly host must certainly be laughing.

I have nothing to offer my Savior and King.

Even sitting here now, the tears crowd out my vision and I feel as dross before the majesty of all that has been laid at His feet and I have nothing to offer Him.

Unless my broken heart counts.

I didn't come to this world to be junk. I know there was a reason I came. But right now I am struggling so very much with the weight of the world, of my world, pressing upon me and I feel helpless. And I admit, there are elements of my battered soul that feel very sad and hopeless.

I don't measure up.

I keep asking myself 'which yardstick am I applying'? Grasping at straws for an answer, I realize I have been trying on different measurements daily for the sum of my days in some pathetic dance of trying to be all things to all people and finding that I have been nothing to anyone.

These feelings of despair are nothing new to me in my life. I have been plagued with self doubt of the most severe kind for my entire life. Despite the public bravado that carries me through my days, I am a facade of the most sinister kind. I am only what I appear to be and behind the facade there isn't even the shadow of substance.

God, why on earth do I matter??

Then, in the wee hours of the morning, I knelt by my bed to pour out my heart and soul in the jumbled arrangement of my earthly treasures I call "my life" and lay them before the Lord. My tears are flowing and my heart, which is already battered and broken, cries out in the agony of soul that only the brokenhearted can truly understand.

I am nothing. God is everything. And the chasm between us feels so very wide tonight.

All I wanted was to matter... to my God, my Savior and to those I love.

Now I see that what I thought was a good thing doesn't measure up. I have sold away my holy birthright for some kind of substitute for life. I am crippled by the expectations of the world juxtaposed with the expectations of God and right now, in the darkness beside my bedside, I see that I am truly found wanting.

It is in these moments that I understand why the prophet Joseph would cry out to God asking him where the pavilion was that covered his hiding place. Because he, like me, experienced a kind of loneliness that cannot be explained... only experienced.

I woke my husband Rick. I asked for a priesthood blessing to carry me through the night and at a least drive away some of the terror that is upon me. I asked for help and a release of my suffering. Tears flowing like a river coursed down my face. It makes me feel so very helpless to have these moments and hours that leave me stripped of any semblance of self and use and to be flailed by the buffetings of Satan so very thoroughly.

The words of the blessing came quietly and surely. The hymns. Seek out the comfort of the hymns. Always it is the music of the hymns and the words of the hymns that saves me. Why can I not remember that on my own? Why?

As I finally lay down to follow the counsel I had been given, I kept praying and remembering the words to the hymn "Jesus Savior Pilot Me". Surely He, the Redeemer of us all, knows the terror of the night. He too endured the horrible pain that I have felt. He has carried it for me and walked with me.

Though the raw feeling of the night's experience is burned into my soul like a brand, I feel the healing Balm of Gilead administered by the Master Physician to soothe the wounded heart... MY wounded heart.

Jesus, Savior, pilot me
over life's tempestuous seas
Unknown waves before me roll
hiding rock and treacherous shoal
Chart and compass came from Thee
Jesus Savior, pilot me.

Though I know that these storms, too, shall pass, I also know that they can and do leave damage to my little ship of faith and hope. It requires the 'dry dock' of constancy in my pursuit of spiritual help and nourishment. Even at this moment, I have a CD of the hymns playing to keep shoving the Devil and his minions further from me. The hymns have become a very important part of my armor. They are the vital force that becomes the literal filler which can smooth over all cracks, seams and imperfections in my protection from the hurts and pains of the world.

So why do I forget this?

Mortality is a strange bag. We get trials tailor made for us as individuals. With those trials and temptations we are to endure are also great opportunities to reach out and seek to become one with the Father of us all. It's not a group project for our trials and burdens cannot be lumped into one great whole. During the night, I came to realize that those wounded and bruised and bleeding hands of the Savior literally have saved me from myself. As the blood dripped from Him, I can receive His healing drop by drop.

Sometimes, when I sit and look upon my own hands and think of those scars the Savior willingly bears in my behalf, it is overwhelming. I am flooded with a sense of His love for me that makes of the tawdry treasures of my life something glorious... for HE is in charge.

I know I am rambling. I haven't slept much.

But I do not ramble about this: Jesus Christ has saved me again. God the Father loves me and loves me enough to make sure that I don't have to endure this alone.