Breaking Promises

Last year, I made a promise to God that I would stop being late for church. I sometimes was late on purpose so I could skip the Sacrament without anyone seeing me pass it up. But that was terribly unfair to my children, and to myself. Since then, I've been so good at being to church on time, even when I was unworthy to take the Sacrament.

Last Sunday, however, I made some dumb choices.

First, I made a mess with some thoughtless words that I posted on Facebook, which words hurt the feelings of some of my most valued friends. I didn't consider the outcome of my post before posting, and I was wrong to post what I did. I felt bad, and I did what I could to clean up that mess. Then, I looked at the clock. It was an hour before church and I still hadn't showered. I knew I could get away with going w/o a shower, but I decided I wanted to be clean. And I readied a bath. I love baths, but, seriously, an hour before church and I think a bath is a good idea?? Well I enjoyed my hot bath and I took my time. By the time I was dressed and had my hair done, it was 15 minutes before church. Luckily, I'm about a five minute drive from my ward building (and I don't even live in Utah!). I still had time to make it on time. Well, I checked Facebook again, and wasted more time. I simply wasn't making church a priority.

Finally I left the house about 10 minutes after church started. I thought if I hurried, I might be on time to take the Sacrament. I zoomed to church, praying, asking God to forgive my neglect, asking Him to help me arrive on time for the sacred bread and water.

I arrived and the doors to the chapel were closed. I sat on a chair in the foyer, hoping I'd made it in time for the bread, and if not, at least the water. But then, the doors were all opened, and the bishopric member was dismissing the Aaronic Priesthood.

Wait, what just happened? I was worthy to partake of the Sacrament, and I didn't?

I couldn't have stopped the tears if I tried. Well, I did try. I don't like to cry in front of people.

Wet-faced, I found an empty chair in an empty row in the overflow (I usually sit in the very front pew!) and wiped my tears away as the meeting proceeded. The Sacrament is precious to me, notwithstanding my blatant neglect Sunday morning. Every Sunday, I thank God that I have privilege to participate in that sweet, covenant-renewing ordinance. I look forward to the cleansing power of the Sacrament each week! How could I reject it when I was worthy?

Not only did I miss the Sacrament, I also broke a promise to God. I was not on time. I had no excuse, no reason.

I prayed for extra strength because I knew I'd need it this week without the promise of the Sacrament, the promise of the Spirit with me always. I needed that, and I rejected that. I knew that there would be consequences for my neglect, but that I could and would lessen the sting of those consequences with repentance and resolution to do better going forward.

I felt so sad. I was sorry to have missed the most important part of church, and I was sorry to have missed the wonderful blessings of the Sacrament. Still, as I write this, I weep. I should have been there. I should have given more effort.

And I thought, you know, this may have been the way those 5 unprepared virgins felt when they were rejected by the Bridegroom. How desperately they wanted to be in attendance! But they were late, and they were denied the Savior's gift. How desperately I wanted to take the bread and water! But I was late, and I was denied the Savior's gift. And I sat there in the dust, regretting, deeply, my choices, as I imagine those virgins must have done. No, no, Lord, please let me in. For them, it was eternally too late. For me, it was too late for one day. I thank God for the opportunity to repent and try again.

I put silly little things at home above my Savior that day. That's what I did, and I feel genuine sorrow for it.

But, do you know what? It'd been so long since I'd been late to church, and that is progress! And that is good progress, that I do not discount. I know that this poor choice did not affect my worth. I know that going to church at all was a good choice. I know that I can learn from this and go forward.

Tomorrow, I will take the Sacrament in gratitude and as much humility as I can muster. I will not let any human thing get in the way of me being on time tomorrow. I'm grateful for Heavenly Father's help with me this week even without doing everything I could to make it to church on time. I know this week could have been better, and I know next week will be better. I need the Sacrament each week, I need it, and I can't refuse it again.

The Vanilla Deception

Vanilla. You open it up and breathe in its delicious fumes. Oh, so good! You can practically taste it! But you know that you're not tasting it, because it tastes pretty gross.


I was the kid who was more curious than smart, who touched the burner after Mom said, "Don't touch the burner; it's hot!" I really did, and it was hot, and I got burned. Later, Mom said, "Don't put metal into a light socket; you'll get burned." So, one day, I deliberately straightened the top part of a wire hanger and inserted that baby into a light socket. The result: pain, blackness on the wall surrounding the light socket, and a satisfied mind. Oh. Mom was right. Another time, Mom said "Vanilla smells good, but it tastes awful," when we were baking, after I asked if I could taste the vanilla. I waited till she wasn't around, climbed up on the counter, got the vanilla out of the cupboard, opened it, smelled it and wondered, "how can anything that smells so sweet taste bad?"

I did not think about the time Mom was right about the burner. I did not think about the time Mom was right about the light socket. I did not think about how Mom never lied to me. I just drank it. A big gulp.

It was disgusting.

Mom wins again.

I look back and wonder, why didn't I trust her? She'd been right before. The vanilla wasn't particularly damaging or dangerous, as previous incidents had been. But the other incidents had no other appeal besides Mom saying don't do it. The vanilla, however, smelled so good.

Satan makes sin smell like vanilla. Right? I mean pornography (or whatever your addiction, if applicable) is SO appealing! The IDEA, in the right circumstances, is wildly appealing. It smells like vanilla. And it has such a strong, strong smell, that you feel like you just HAVE to taste it, because how can it possibly taste bad when it smells so good? And somehow, in those moments, I forget how sour it was the last time I tasted it, and I can only think of how great of an idea it seems to be. So, I chug the vanilla again, and remember too late why I said "I'll never taste this again!" last time I tasted it.

Heavenly Father has warned us through prophets to avoid pornography! But Satan makes it appealing. Like Vanilla. It seems like it's going to be so great, and fulfill your expectations, but then when you drink it, it's awful.

My 9-year-old daughter was baking with me the other day. I let her smell the vanilla. I asked her if she wanted to taste it. She said, "no, Mom, you told me it tastes bad."

I was impressed and admittedly baffled by her trust. I told her a little won't hurt (holy cow, I'm such a pusher!) and she could taste it if she wanted. She still refused. She trusted me. Even with the sweet smell of vanilla beneath her nose, she trusted me.

I'm so grateful she is stronger and smarter than I am. I am grateful for her example! I hope that the next time my favorite sins beckon to me, that I can remember my sweet daughter's example. Even if the sweet smell is directly under my nose, I hope that I can say, "No. I trust Heavenly Father. He has told me this will taste horrible, and make me feel awful. I trust Him."

I don't want to be that kid anymore, that kid who touches the burner after Mom says not to. I don't want to be more curious than I am smart. I don't want to disregard the Spirit's warnings, in interest of finding out for myself, any longer.

I'm so grateful for the Atonement of my loving Brother! I can be forgiven! I can go Home! I can gain the strength to say no to sweet-smelling sins.

To the Wives of Porn Addicts

A while ago, I wrote a letter to the men in addiction recovery whom I admire so much. They remind me that there are good men out there in this world and give me hope to one day have a wonderful husband. I have had the opportunity to be associated with some wonderful men while in this process of recovery! I also admire their wives, and this is for them.

Dear WOPAs,

Sometimes, I feel guilty for having the very addictions that strain your marriages. Sometimes I'm afraid to talk about my addiction in your presence because I know how pornography has hurt you and your marriages. I hate that I have chosen a specific path of sin, a path which so often leads to the destruction of families. In a way, I feel responsible for your husbands' addictions.

And, in a way, I am.

When I look at pornography, I contribute to the evil industry that is getting between you and your husbands. When I indulge in my chosen vice, I perpetuate this great evil! Even though I've never paid for pornography, supporting what's available for free is still supporting the industry, the industry that feeds or fed your husbands' addictions, and strained your marriages.

I'm so sorry.

I know that it's not my fault, that your marriages suffer or suffered. I don't take the blame. But I do feel I bear a small portion of responsibility, and I feel sorrow for that. I'm so sorry for that!

I'm also sorry for the pain you've had to endure, for that bitter betrayal, especially that sting of first discovery. Before I had ever even looked at a pornographic image on purpose, I found a porn video in my husband's possession. It devastated me, as I'm sure that same first discovery devastated you. I was so hurt that I wasn't good enough for him. I was so upset that something so evil was in my home and I didn't have anything to do with it. I was so confused and I felt betrayed and I shook and cried and hated myself because I felt like my husband must hate me.

Of course I was wrong. Of course his pornography had nothing to do with my worth. As I read your blogs, as I talk to you in person, it sounds like most of you get that-- that it doesn't affect your worth. I admire that about you so much.

I'm trying to say that even though I am addicted to pornography, I, in a small way, understand your challenges. I'm so sorry you have to endure them.

However, again, as I read your blogs and speak with you in person, I am amazed at your strength and perseverance! I am touched deeply by the love you have for your husbands. Your dedication inspires me. You help your husbands by supporting them, by learning about addiction, by learning about yourselves. You seek out the good in your husbands and in your lives, and you keep. holding. on. I know God will bless you for your incredible patience and true love.

I know some of you are divorced primarily due to your ex husbands' sexual addictions. I do know the pain of divorce, very well, and my heart goes out to you. No one gets married thinking they'll get divorced later. We all marry with grand hopes and intentions, goals for eternity. Divorce turns the world upside-down. Dreams shatter. Hopes scatter. The future disappears before your face and is replaced with an enormous wall full of now what?s. That's a small glimpse of what it was like for me, anyway. It's hard. It's just plain hard.

You women amaze me. You inspire me. Please, don't give up. God will carry you.

I hope this doesn't sound presumptuous or condescending. I often think of the wives of male porn addicts, and I look on you with compassion and admiration. You're beautiful, wonderful women.

Most sincerely,
~Stephanie J Martin

STOP, STOP, STOP!

I was going about my day today, doing not much good, or so I said to myself. I finally talked myself into cleaning the kitchen and as I was putting something away, I thought, "I should have done this earlier. I should have played with my kids more. I should have worked more with them on their schoolwork. I wish I was a better mom. I wish I was a better person. I am no good at anything. People think I'm this great person, but I'm not. I'm selfish and lazy and all I do-"

And then I screamed in my head: "STOP! STOP! STOP!"

I have been beating myself in this fashion for the last several weeks. And today, while cleaning the kitchen, I felt so crumbled, so beaten by my own blows, so tiny, so insignificant by my own verbal abuse, that the me inside of me shouted out in desperation, STOP!

Immediately, I recalled the first time I screamed that word in succession, in a surprisingly and embarrassingly similar situation, several years ago.

A man that I loved had shoved me up against a wall and pinned me there with his large arm. He was a large man- very tall, very broad, very strong. He had never been that violent with me before, and while it didn't hurt, the fear was extreme. While I was there, totally at his mercy, he brought his angry, hateful face into mine, so close I could see his pores, and screamed at me. It seemed like he carried on forever, screaming at me, telling me what a horrible person I was, telling me why I was worse than other people, and he should have just hit me because I would have preferred that. But he hollered on and on while every part of me was paralyzed except my tears. Finally, when I could catch my breath, and when I couldn't handle another second of the abuse, I did the only thing I could think of. I screamed back at him: "STOP! STOP! STOP!" It was desperate. Pleading. Oh, please, please stop. I am dying from your words. I am broken and exhausted. Stop, please, stop telling me how you hate me, stop telling me that I am nothing. Please. Stop.

Honestly, I forgot the actual words he said the very next hour. I couldn't remember any specifics, and I still haven't been able to recall them. I think my brain is protecting me, and I'm just fine with that. But I do remember, with remarkable clarity, how he made me feel. That man did many other horrible things to me, and some hurt worse at the time than that screaming incident. But, strangely, it's that incident that still hurts. Nothing else he did affects me anymore; just that one. I think about that time and I still get emotional.

Why?

It's because words are powerful. The words we speak affect those around us, in a powerful way. I recently interviewed with the Canyon County Prosecuting Attorney about domestic violence, and he told me that emotional/verbal/mental abuse is worse than physical abuse. He said that every victim he'd ever spoken to believed the physical abuse to be less damaging and less painful than the emotional abuse. And he put it to me this way:

Prosecuting Attorney: Have you ever had a broken bone?
Me: Yes.
PA: So you know how painful that is.
Me: Yes.
PA: Which hurts worse- a broken bone, or a broken heart?

The answer was blaringly obvious. A broken heart, of course. A hundred broken bones before a broken heart, please.

Elder Holland gave an amazing talk called The Tongue of Angels. You can watch or read it here. In it, he said this:

"It is with [the] realization of the power and sanctity of words that I wish to caution us, if caution is needed, regarding how we speak to each other and how we speak of ourselves."

He explains how the words we use affect others. Have you heard people say things like "if so-and-so is offended by what I say, that's their fault, not mine," or, "So-and-so is overly sensitive and what I said shouldn't have been hurtful"? Well, I believe we don't get to use that as an excuse. We actually do need to take responsibility for our words, even and perhaps especially those words we use with ourselves. Elder Holland warns: "In all of this, I suppose it goes without saying that negative speaking so often flows from negative thinking, including negative thinking about ourselves. We see our own faults, we speak—or at least think—critically of ourselves, and before long that is how we see everyone and everything. No sunshine, no roses, no promise of hope or happiness. Before long we and everybody around us are miserable." Also, Holland explains that Jesus said, "Not that which goeth into the mouth defileth a man; but that which cometh out of the mouth, this defileth a man." Our negative, mean words defile us.

Quite conversely, Alma 31:5 says this:
And now, as the preaching of the word had a great tendency to lead the people to do that which was just—yea, it had had more powerful effect upon the minds of the people than the sword, or anything else, which had happened unto them—therefore Alma thought it was expedient that they should try the virtue of the word of God.

Preaching of the word had a more powerful effect upon the minds of the people than the sword. Wow! Our positive words are powerful, too. Negative words must also be more powerful than the sword, wouldn't you say? We must choose our words carefully, because words are powerful! What if, instead of saying to ourselves, "I'm a terrible person because I didn't do the laundry today like I should have," we say, "Because I am God's child, and because I have strengths and blessings, I can do better tomorrow," or, "I probably should have done the laundry, but I'm so glad I played with my kids and had a great talk with God today." Every day we do good things. Find those.

As I've said before, negative self-talk is a tool of the Adversary. He loves when we do this to ourselves. He joins in and whispers lies about our worth that we often readily believe. And while in a state of believing we are worthless, we are weakened, and Satan has more power over us, and is more able to lead us to sin.

That mean man broke my heart and my spirit that day so long ago. Do I do the same to myself when I repeat, over and over, in a mean way, how horrible I am? Well, yes. Yes I do. I'm breaking my own heart. I'm giving myself the same feelings that man gave me so many years ago. Worthless, useless, stupid, hopeless, invisible. And somewhere inside, my spirit implores, Stop! Stop! Stop!

President Uchtdorf said this:

And this applies to ourselves, too. When it comes to hating ourselves, gossiping about ourselves, ignoring ourselves, ridiculing ourselves, holding grudges against ourselves, or wanting to cause harm to ourselves-- please apply the following: STOP IT.

Well. I'm going to try, President Uchtdorf. I'm really going to try.

The Worth of MY Soul

Awhile back, I wrote a post called "The Worth of YOUR Soul." The irony almost makes me laugh, now. I intellectually understand the concept of unalterable worth. I understand it enough to write about it and almost make it make sense. I hope by admitting this, I don't seem arrogant, but the post I linked here is one people still talk to me about to this day. "Remember that post? It was great. I need to read it over and over."

And, yet, even though I wrote about it, I still didn't get it. And, I still don't. But, today something clicked for me. Something huge.

As much as I intellectually understand that telling myself things like "I am not an acceptable human being" is a lie, I don't get it. I still believe, to my core, that I am not an acceptable human being. So, when someone doesn't like me, I get hurt, because they're validating my inner truth. If I knew it was false in my heart as I know it in my brain, then when someone stopped hanging out with me, or stopped talking to me like they used to, or said mean things about me behind my back or to my face, or when someone I love treated me like dirt, then those behaviors wouldn't speak to my inner truth: See? You are worthless. See? You will never be accepted. Didn't I tell you? You're not worthy of acceptance."

This inner truth is why when one person says something mean one time, it feels huge. It feels like everything. Because it's the truth I feel. If 1% of all my peers behaves toward me one way, while 99% behaves toward me another way, I'm going to side with whichever group speaks to my personal inner truth. The rest isn't really going to matter. I'd like to switch it around so that my inner truth says the actual truth: that I am worthy. I am worthy of acceptance. If I knew that with my heart, then whenever people I love or don't love treated me in a way that suggested I may not be worthy of acceptance, I wouldn't believe it. I would discard it immediately and carry on with no grudge. It wouldn't matter, because it wouldn't reflect my core beliefs of my worth.

How do I get there? How do I reach a point where external validation/information is not where I find my worth?

My sweet, sweet son teaches me so much. He is a very sensitive child. He's sensitive to a lot of things: sounds, lights, smells, textures. He's sensitive to others' opinions of him. He desperately, desperately wants to be understood and accepted. When he does not feel accepted, he does not feel safe. When he does not feel safe, he may well have a meltdown, complete with screaming and carrying on about how everyone is mean. And I sometimes just don't get it. I think, how can you believe that you are not worthy, son? How can you believe that what little Brandon thinks of you is anywhere near the truth? And sometimes, he even creates scenarios that don't really exist to validate this false truth of his. "Jack was staring at me!" means "Jack hates me and thinks I'm doing something wrong. Jack doesn't like me. I am not accepted by Jack, so I am not acceptable; not worthy of acceptance." And my heart breaks. My sweet son is the most wonderful little boy I know. Why others don't see it is beyond me, but sometimes, even more beyond me, is why my little boy refuses to see it when I am here at home telling him year after year, day after day how wonderful he is and how much he means to me. Why isn't that enough for him? Why doesn't he believe me? I'm his mother! He is acceptable to me. I accept him always, every moment, exactly the way he is.

But, still, he believes those who validate his core belief.

And, so, since however much I love my son, God loves me more, I can see that perhaps my Father in Heaven thinks maybe some of the same things, only on a grander scale. "Stephanie. How can you believe that what Jan thinks of you is anywhere near the truth? How can you believe that you are not worthy, my daughter? It doesn't matter why Richard doesn't think you're worthy; just because you're not accepted by him, doesn't mean you're not acceptable. Why do you refuse to see your worth when I tell you all the time how wonderful you are, how beautiful, and how much you mean to me? Why don't you believe me? I am your God, your Creator, your Eternal Father. I made you and you are worthy of acceptance, always, in every moment, exactly the way you are."

I think of how much my children mean to me. I love them to capacity. I think of how beautiful and incredible they are, and I know that nothing anyone ever said or did to them could make me feel anything different about them. I know that their worth in my eyes is not alterable by their peers or even by their own thoughts. When my son has his moments of self-doubt, I know he's wrong. He just is. His worth is incredible, whether he sees it or not, whether he's in the middle of a meltdown or not, whether he is being obedient and kind or not. I love him the same. He is worth the same. I accept him the same.

Take that and multiply it by infinity, and that's how much God loves me. That's also how Jesus, my Rescuer sees me. Worthy of acceptance all the time.

I hope I get this soon.

Isaiah 49:15, 16
Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee.

Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me.