What I Fear Part I

I keep saying things like "I don't know what I'm afraid of." But I think I do know what I fear, at least part of it, and I think it's silly, so I haven't given it a voice. I'm about to give it a voice. Here goes:

I have been this girl for my whole life. I have been the one who needs rescued. I need help. I can't do it. I can't keep my house clean-- my bedroom growing up was the same way. I can't stay on task-- it's always been the same story. I can't focus and I forget everything and I make commitments I don't keep. When I make them, I have genuinely good intentions. But I forget, or I panic, and I don't keep them. It's been this way for as long as I can remember. Don't get me wrong; I have plenty of good qualities, too. In fact, let's take a break to go over some of those things as well, just so this doesn't turn into a bash-Erin post:

I'm compassionate
Sometimes I judge people, but as soon as I realize it, I stop
I play hide and seek with my kids
I write pretty songs
I'm intelligent
I'm a deep thinker
I'm creative
I'm dang funny

So there's a few. Returning to the topic, disorganized, scattered and forgetful is how I've been my whole life! I'm predictable. People around me know they have to help me remember my purse/coat/keys. They know I need a hundred reminders for events. They know my house won't be clean if they come over. They know I need help to keep my head on. And they do help me, because they love me. I love that they love me. If I stopped needing them, would they still show me that love? I don't know. I guess they would, but it would be in a different way, and would I recognize it?

Similarly, my Father in Heaven knows I am the way I am. He knows I'll forget the lessons this addiction teaches me. He knows I'll forget I promised to feed the missionaries on Tuesday. He knows I have a hard time committing to anything at all. But, even so, He loves me. Even so, He's there for me, picking me up off the ground and dusting me off, every time I fall. I have been an addict for so long, and needed His constant, willing mercy for so long, that it's how I've come to read His love for me. And I feel it from Him, and my Savior, every time I stand again and turn to Them. They're there, every. Single. Time.

And, Friends, I know it sounds so crazy, but because I love to feel the love of Jesus, and the love of my God, I'm so afraid to lose that by giving up my sins.

Even as I type that, even as I give it a voice, I know it's false. But it's still scary.

When I'm in my bishop's office, confessing my latest slip, all I feel is love.

When I'm on my knees, saying to my Father, "Here I am again. My hands are soiled again. I'm sorry I hurt myself, my children, and my Savior," and when I'm bringing Him my breaking heart, all I feel is love.

This is what I know of God's love! This is almost all I know of God's love, because this is where I've been most my life. I believe His love is beyond this addiction, but I can't I know that's true, like I do know He will always welcome me back in His arms after every fall.

My addiction is how I've come to know Jesus Christ. My addiction is how I have seen the Atonement work in my life. I feel His great love for me every time I turn back to Him after acting out. It is a most beautiful experience and sacred experience, and I hope I am not making light of it. I hope I'm not taking it for granted. I hope it doesn't sound like I'm saying I choose to sin because I want to feel God's love. That's not really it. I choose to repent because I want to feel His love, but I do seem to have it in my head that I won't need to repent as much if I give up this sin-- and then how will I feel His love? This is what I know of God: He is merciful to me and long-suffering with me and eager to forgive me. This is how I know this: Turning back to Him after giving into the flesh.

Do you see? Why is God so good? If He wasn't so kind and patient with me, I know that I would be even less motivated to recover, so I do know that His love is not what's keeping me in this dark, addicted state.

I'm ashamed to say that this fear is real: Out there, out beyond this forest of addiction, where is God's love? How will I find it? Will I feel it the way I do now? Will He show me as frequently as He does now? Will He gather me into the safety of His embrace as He does now?

I think He will, but I don't know. And I don't know if I will recognize it when it comes.

It's a lie, you know- that I can't. I think I can't be organized. I think I can't do things myself. I think I can't stop my favorite sins. I think I can't, and I think that's my excuse-- that I can't. Well, it's all a lie, even though I've been that crazy, scattered person my entire life. It's not who I am; it's a weakness that I can reform.

It's also a lie that I can't feel God's love after I conquer this battle.

I'm asking for your help. Will you tell me when you have felt the sweet, sweet love of God, outside the realm of addiction and recovery? Will you testify to me that He bestows His tender mercies to those who are out of addiction?

**Update**
I just found this on my friend's blog By the Light of Grace. Thanks, Sidreis! It's perfect for my fears of the moment:

The will of God will never take you
Where the love of God cannot enfold you,
Where the mercies of God cannot sustain you,
Where the peace of God cannot calm your fears,
Where the authority of God cannot overrule for you.

Sigh. I guess it's about trust at this point.