Life is Worth Living

You wouldn't think that being in a car accident would save your life, but that is what happened to me!
In June, 2015 I was on my way to get our 8-year-old from an activity he had been at. I was supposed to be there at noon, but I never made it (don't worry, his dad went and got him). Just a mile or so away from my house, a car slammed into the side/back of my van, spinning me around so I was facing on-coming traffic. I sat there stunned and terrified, just cringing while I waited to be hit again. When I finally opened my eyes (at least, I think they were shut?), I realized that we had ended up in the median and there was little traffic, allowing other cars to avoid us. When I composed myself enough to ask my other three children if they were okay, I was so grateful and a little bit amazed that none of us had been injured. That's when I realized how scared I was during that second or two between the time the car hit us and I realized that it was over. I was afraid I was going to die. . . and I wasn't ready! I was a little bit surprised by this feeling. Dealing with depression for so many years, I thought I would be grateful to die young and be removed from the daily struggle of getting up in the morning and the mental and physical pain that comes with the disease.
Not long after this happened, I had a "bad patch" where the depression had really taken a hold of every aspect of my life. I couldn't get out of bed in the morning. I couldn't make or keep plans. Cooking and cleaning were too much to handle. I somehow managed to do my school work for the one online class I was in, but it was difficult. I would be lying if I said that I didn't think about suicide. But I had something that I didn't have before. I had that 'near-death-experience' that made me realize that deep down I didn't want to die! As sad and difficult and downright exhausting as my life experience was at the time, I knew that I still wanted to experience it. It instilled in me the fight that I needed to keep going; the fight that I might not have had in me if I hadn't been in that car accident. It brought me closer to the Savior. Even though I don't completely understand it, I know that my Savior has experienced everything that I was going through, and I've managed to fight my way out of dark days before. I could do it again. And I wanted to!
There was no magical moment or experience that got me out of my slump; there never is. I gradually just realized that it was easier to get out of bed, life took a bit less effort, and I was a better wife and mom. It's happened before, and I knew it would happen again.
I'm not sure why I had to get in an accident to figure it out, but I do know that car accident saved me. I got to start over, in a matter of speaking. My van was totaled, so I got a new van and new car seats for the kids. More importantly, I discovered how important my life was and how much I wanted it to continue!

I'm terrible at this!

I realized that it's been over a year since my last post. I'm terrible at posting regularly. In fact, I'm terrible at doing anything regularly. I rarely commit to anything that will happen more than once, because I know that I'm terrible at it. Going back to school a couple of years ago was very difficult because I had to commit to being there every week. It is the reason my children do not take music lessons, dance classes, play sports, or do any extra curricular activity. Although I am forgetful, being flaky is not the reason I can't do things on a regular basis. It is because of my anxiety and depression. The anxiety makes me struggle to be ready for anything, especially if it's something new. I can't fall asleep, I can't think of anything else, and I'm nervous about any possible outcome. The depression makes me not want to try. I don't want to be noticed. I don't feel like doing anything. Most of all, I'm exhausted ALL THE TIME. The effort to get out of bed is too much for me some days. Doing more than that is incomprehensible.
Every time I've thought of writing a blog post for the past year, I've talked myself out of it, because I felt like it had to be perfect. I feel like I have to be one of those mommy-bloggers who has a million readers who can't wait for the next post. I have to touch someone so profoundly that I change their life. So, although there is a constant dialog in my head of what I could say to someone, write on Facebook, or write here on my blog, I rarely do it.
This doesn't just apply to blogging or social media. It applies to everything in my life. If I'm not going to do it perfectly, why do it at all? So, I have few close friends. I isolate myself, and I stay in my bed where I feel the safest, but also where I can allow myself to feel all of the negativity without anyone else seeing it. Some may call it wallowing in self-pity. That may be true. Sometimes it just feels like all I can do to survive.
Anyway, this post wasn't really supposed to be about depression and anxiety, but they generally rule my life, so it's not surprising that's what it ended up being about.
However, I think I made a breakthrough with my husband last night in communicating with him when I'm having a particularly hard day. I tend to take it out on him, and he is amazing at forgiving me and loving me anyway. Yesterday was one of those days. But last night, I finally voiced an idea I've had for awhile, but didn't know how to say it before. When I am having a bad day with my depression or anxiety, I really don't like to say the words. I don't know why, but I can't just say "My depression is bad today" or something like that. Hubby asks me what is wrong. . . a lot. So, since I can pretty much assume he'll ask me that, I came up with a code word to tell him that I'm not okay when he asks me that. Then he's allowed to ask me if I want to talk about it or not. I'm hoping that it will make it easier to let him know that it's not his fault that I'm upset. We'll see. Communication is not my strength.
While I'm talking about things that might help when I'm having a bad day, I remember another insight that I had a while back about forcing myself to get up and going on bad days. I usually try to force myself to go do something, or at least get up and shower and get ready for the day. I think that it will somehow shake off my bad mood. But, I've become pretty good at knowing first thing in the morning how my day is going to go. It's not my attitude or what I do or don't do, it's just how I feel when I wake up. The insight I had is that if I know it's going to be a bad day, I shouldn't try to force myself to do things I don't want to do. I need to allow myself to just have a bad day. Because I'm a stay-at-home-mom, I can usually do this without too much of an issue. I realized that when I fight it and try to be the perfect mom and wife and get out of the house when I'm depressed, I just spread it around to everyone else. I'm ornery and unkind. I yell way too much, and get worn out really quickly. Then I usually have a bad day the next day too. However, I noticed that when I allow myself the day to just BE, I can recover and have a better day the next day. This may not be the same for everyone. I know a lot of people who say that getting up and ready and getting some sunshine makes for a good day. I don't know if it applies to what I call "depression days" though. What do you think? What helps you when you have a bad day? Do you know your triggers? Comment and let me know. I'd like to think we can help each other out!
Well, this post seemed better in my head, but I'm going to post it anyway! I will not commit to posting again soon, but I hope I can figure more helpful insights out and share them in the future!

It's Been a Long Time!

I haven't had much time to think about this blog in awhile. I can't believe how long it's been since I last posted. I have plenty of excuses, but mostly it just hasn't been a priority for me. Last time I wrote, I was just getting ready to move back to Utah and for my husband to get out of the Army. Well, we did it! We sold our beautiful house in Colorado Springs, and moved to Roy, Utah on May 1st, 2014. We found a house for rent just a few days before we moved and went and saw it as soon as we got here and immediately signed papers and started moving what we brought with us in. We got the rest of our stuff about a week later and we have spent the last 9 months trying to settle in and figure out civilian life again. Military life was hard, but there were some things that I was just used to that I no longer have! One thing I miss is living on my own with just me and my little family, no extended family near. Don't get me wrong, I love my family, but living away from them strengthened us in so many ways. It also allowed us to experience a different kind of family. . . the kind that is there for you, not because they are related and feel it's an obligation, but because they love you and truly want to help (once again, my family is great, and I don't feel like they are obligatorily nice, but it's just a little different). I miss my ward (a group of members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints who live close to one another and meet together for services and activities). I miss my house. I miss my beautiful backyard with huge trees and squirrels, listening to the doves every morning,  and even the annoying woodpecker who would occasionally peck on our metal chimney, which made the most obnoxious sound from our fireplace.  I cannot truly say that I am used to it here, even though I've lived in Utah most of my life. I haven't felt like we are quite settled. However, we have been talking about buying the house we are renting since we moved in. Now that it's getting close (in the next couple of months), I hope that I will feel more at home once the house is mine.
I am notorious for thinking that "the grass is greener on the other side." I thought getting out of the military would make me happy. I thought that moving back near family would make things easier. In some ways things are better, and I am certain that getting out of the military was the right decision for our family, but in fact, life has been difficult for me. The past year has been one of the toughest years. Moving is exhausting. School has been stressful. Being the "new girl" has never been easy for me, as making friends is scary and difficult. My depression has brought me down much more than I'd care to admit. It's been as bad as ever before. I try to hide it from people, and I'm getting much better at doing so. I wanted a fresh start when I moved, where people didn't know my past; where nobody knew that I was depressed. So far, I've kept it pretty secret, but I'm about to explode because of it. I often find myself wanting to call someone to talk about it, but just don't know who to call. I don't want to bother anyone and I certainly don't want their pity. However, my amazing husband listens to me when I eventually decide to talk about it, and for now that will have to work.
I'm hoping to find some new battle strategies and then bring them back here to share. So far, I've found a few things. Here's one: writing down everything I'm feeling, even if I would never say it out loud, then ripping it up and throwing it away sometimes makes me feel better.
The most important thing I have to remember, and I hope you can too, is that Heavenly Father listens and Jesus Christ understands and has experienced all that I feel, so I have to rely on Him more!

Writing

I haven't written much lately, because I've been taking an English class and that's all I've been doing for the last 12 weeks! However, one of the papers I recently wrote, I want to share, so here it is:

Oh, Baby!

            It was Thanksgiving Day, 2010. My husband Jared and I sat at the dinner table with our two rambunctious little boys Preston and Derik. Our sweet newborn, Abby, was asleep in her car seat on the floor next to us. As I looked at her, I reflected back to how our family came to be and how lucky I was to be a mom. The difficulty I had in bringing this little girl into our family was foremost in my mind. I would never again take for granted the precious gift of life and how much Heavenly Father had blessed us since I first learned I was pregnant for the third time.

            Unfortunately, my third pregnancy was cut much shorter than I expected. In the summer of 2009, at eleven weeks pregnant, I began bleeding and having severe cramps. We were living in Dongducheon, Korea and had to drive two hours to get to the hospital in Seoul. It was an emotionally and physically agonizing drive. I was finally seen by a doctor and was told I had miscarried. My heart dropped and I began to sob. Jared and I were both devastated. I spent the following months crying myself to sleep every night. I felt like my heart was in a vice, being squeezed so tightly it would stop beating. That September, I finally got some medication that helped my depression and I started feeling better. Although I knew I couldn’t get pregnant again right away, I was looking forward to the time that I could.

            In April of 2010, my parents came to visit us in Korea. I was thrilled when they got there that I was able to tell them I was pregnant again. I was nervous about having another miscarriage, but was doing well and feeling better than I had in years. A couple of months later we moved from Korea to Colorado. In July, we found out we were having a girl. After having two boys, I was so excited to have a girl. We decorated her bedroom, bought some cute new clothes, and were waiting with great anticipation for our little girl to come. She was due just after Thanksgiving.  She, however, didn’t want to wait that long.

            In early October, my feet and hands were so swollen that I could barely use them. I had to wear braces on my wrists, or I would wake up in the middle of the night with my fingers clenched shut and my hands bent forward awkwardly, making straightening them agonizing. I also started having throbbing headaches. One started on a Saturday night and continually got worse, until by Sunday night it was excruciating and I couldn’t sleep. I went to the emergency room at Evans Hospital on Fort Carson Monday morning. They took my vitals and immediately admitted me. My blood pressure was so high that I was at extreme risk for seizures. They gave me morphine for my headache, and although the pain was not completely gone, it was the most wonderful thing that had happened to me in weeks.

            After a few hours of the doctors trying to stabilize my blood pressure, I was taken by ambulance to Memorial Hospital. I was put on a medication to get my blood pressure under control, given steroid shots to develop the baby’s lungs, and told that I would deliver her no later than when I was thirty-four weeks along. That was just over a week away. Within hours, my whole world had changed. Although I was pretty out of it, I remember looking at Jared and seeing that he was terrified, but trying to be strong for me. I had never seen him, my tough husband, so scared and vulnerable. He didn’t know if I was going to survive. I knew my baby wasn’t ready to be born, and wondered what was going to be wrong with her, or even if she would survive. The medication I was on made me feel as if I was another person: a person who liked to chomp on popsicles, was hot all the time, and hated the smell of her husband’s cologne. More than my body feeling different, I had a new respect for life and how precious it is.

            By Thursday, October 14, the steroids had time to work and the doctors said it was time for Abby to be born. I was in labor for six hours, but nothing was happening and the baby was in distress, so I was abruptly taken to the operating room. As Jared nervously waited in the hall as I was prepped, I silently prayed that everything would be okay. I immediately had a peaceful feeling come over me, comforting me. What seemed like hours later, but was actually only about twenty or thirty minutes, my princess was delivered via cesarean section. My body was fighting so hard and I was so exhausted. I struggled to keep my eyes open so I could see my daughter before they took her to the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit). I saw her briefly, then the next thing I remember is waking up in recovery. I remember very little of that day and the next, but they were spent trying to gain enough strength to visit my darling baby, who I knew I had seen, but it seemed more like a dream than a memory. As I sat on my bed trying to eat yogurt, but falling asleep between each bite, I was angry at my physical weaknesses. I needed to eat. I needed to sleep. All I wanted to do was hold my baby. I finally got to see her and hold her Friday night. All I could say was “She is so tiny” over and over. My baby girl, although only four pounds, two ounces, was one of the biggest blessings I’ve ever received. Nothing was wrong with her, except that she was a little bit too small.

            I spent the next four days before I was discharged sleeping and visiting Abby as often as I had the energy to walk down the stark hallway to the hand washing room, where the sterile scent of the soap slowly became loathsome to me. From there we could go into the tiny room where our baby was connected to several beeping machines, letting us know her heart rate, oxygen levels, and blood pressure, and feeding her through a tube in her nose. I was sent home, but Abby had to stay, which was emotionally crushing. She struggled over then next few weeks growing and learning to breathe and eat on her own, but she was strong and fought hard. Jared and our boys loved that little girl, but none were as touched by her as I. She would always be my precious angel. I spent every minute I could with her, and was thrilled when they told us we could take her home.

            As my husband and I drove home from the hospital on November 17, 2010 for the billionth time, I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder to try to get a glimpse of my tiny Abby in her pink car seat. We were finally taking her home! After thirty-three days of waiting, we finally had our precious angel in our cherry red Durango, which had aged hundreds of miles over the last few weeks of driving back and forth. I couldn’t hold back the joyful tears as I realized how lucky I was to have my husband and my three amazing kids, and that we would all be together for Thanksgiving. After all we had been through, our family was closer than ever before, and I made a vow to never take that for granted again.

Will You Be My Friend?

I remember in elementary school writing notes to people that looked something like this: "do you like me? Circle Yes or No"
Why isn't it this easy now? Sometimes I would like to send a note like that. But, it's just not that easy. In kindergarten if you want to play with someone, you just do. Or maybe it started with borrowing a crayon or having to sit at the same table. Whatever the reason you became friends with your kindergarten friends, it likely was a lot less complicated than it is to make a friend now you're an adult. Right?
I am pretty shy. I don't talk to people I don't know very often. There are people I would love to claim as my friends, but I only see them at church and hardly say more than a few sentences in passing. So, how do I know that they would consider me a friend? Am I truly friends with all of my Facebook friends? Probably not.
I have a friends who I used to be closer to, but I don't feel as comfortable with them as I once was. I have other friends who I am not close to, but I long to be. I feel lonely at times, and wish I had a good friend that I could call. I wish I had a friend who would just drop by and see how I was doing. Someone who would feel at home in my home. I want a friend who I could count on.
The point is, I'm looking at it backwards. If I want a good friend, I need to be one! I need to figure out what I can do to help someone out. I need to love someone just for being who she is, not what I want her to be. I need to call her and see how she is doing, or stop by her house just to talk.
I think I'm so afraid of rejection, that I don't bother trying. Sure, I'm kind to those around me, and I help out when I'm asked. But, how many true friends have you made by being asked to help them by the Relief Society? How many true friends do you have where they are the only ones doing the calling, stopping by, checking in, etc.?
I challenge you and myself that if you are lonely, call someone else who might be lonely too. Take some cookies or a loaf of bread, or a note, or anything you can think of over to someone you think might need it. Keep a smile on your face. Tell people by the way you act that you are a good friend. Don't complain on facebook about everything and forget to tell about the good things. Honestly, who wants a friend who only complains? Be the friend that you have always wanted. You don't have to have everything in common. Celebrate your differences. If you don't have a lot to talk about at first, it is okay!
I am doing a program for my English class that has me Skype with a girl from Mexico who is learning English. The first time was really awkward. We had very little to say. She didn't understand a lot of what I would say. It was a little frustrating. The next week, things went better, and we took up the half hour much more easily. Now I'm excited for our next meeting. I'm starting to get to know her, and I enjoy learning about her.
So, this week, I'm going to invite someone over, and I'm going to take something over to someone else. What are you going to do to be a better friend?

The "D" Word

I have been avoiding this post, because there is just so much to write. It's not just that; this is a very difficult subject for me to post about, considering all that I've been through, and that I still deal with it daily. The subject is depression. The reason I titled it "The "D" Word" is because it's a subject that is, well, difficult to discuss, for lack of better words. Although it's much better than it used to be, I think that depression is still viewed by many to be a weakness. Wow, it's taken me about a half hour just to write this paragraph. . . .the reason I've been struggling to write this. 

Let's start at the beginning. When I was about 12, I noticed that I didn't enjoy things that I used to, like playing football with my friends in their front yard. I figured it was just the fact that I was growing up, and that was childish.  I also became a lot more secluded and anti-social. Once again, I was growing up, and things were a little bit confusing. 

Down the road a couple of years, I wasn't eating as well, and I had headaches all the time. I also had trouble sleeping. The headaches got so bad that I ended up getting an MRI, thinking that maybe I had some kind of brain tumor or something. When I got the results that nothing was wrong, I decided to just pretend I didn't have headaches anymore. I realized that they were mostly from not eating lunch every day, so they got better. But, things weren't great. I got obsessed with things and was never happy enough with what I had. 

Fast forward to high school. I had a best friend who told me that she didn't like to hang out with me anymore, because I wasn't ever happy. It was at that point that I knew she was right, but was so mad at her for telling me that I wasn't happy enough for her. 

So, if I'm not happy enough, how do I change that? Unfortunately, I never really figured that out. However, I did get pretty darn good at faking it. I started smiling more, even though I didn't feel like it. I went out with friends even when I didn't feel like it. I wish I could say that it solved my problem. I wish I could say that it was mind over matter and that I "smiled" my way out of my depression. There were so many times that I heard "pray" or "do what's right" and that it would all be okay. Well, it wasn't okay, and I didn't know how to tell anyone else why or how it wasn't okay. I didn't know how to tell anyone, especially my parents, that I didn't know how to be happy. 

One night I had a break down, and I told one of my friends. It was the first time I had really admitted to myself or anyone else that I thought I had depression. But, I still didn't know what to do about it. So, I went on with my life. I just kept on living my life as before. Don't get me wrong, I was happy sometimes, and I had fun times, but my happiness often was contingent on how things were going with friends, or whether I had a boyfriend, or how difficult/easy my school work was. I found a lot of people and things to blame my unhappiness on. I also wasn't getting enough sleep, which didn't help things at all.

I learned to live with my depression. I thought that it was just who I was and there was nothing to be done about it. When I met my husband and marriage was coming up, I was happy. I thought that this is what I had been waiting for. Now I could be happy. Then I started having panic attacks. I was stressed about getting married, after all, to me, marriage is a one-time thing. And it doesn't just last "'till death do you part." For me, marriage is eternal, and this is not something I wanted to mess up. So, even though I found a wonderful man, and I was sure he was the man that I should marry, I had a few panic attacks along the way. I was only 18, and my parents didn't seem thrilled about my choice, so it would have made it relatively easy to back out. But, I didn't. And 10 years later, I am so happy that I made the right choice. 

After we were married, I quickly got pregnant with our first child. We were thrilled. Although my pregnancy wasn't easy, I couldn't complain. I knew too many women who had it far worse than I did. It was after the baby was born that it really got bad. 

I had major postpartum depression. I didn't ever admit it to anyone else, because I was supposed to be so excited about my new baby and how precious he was. I wasn't supposed to feel like I wished I had never had him. I didn't want to be a mom. I could barely get up and get dressed every day. Now I was in charge of this little person, who I loved so much, but sometimes my brain didn't correspond with my heart. Of course, after a few months it got better, and I just learned to deal with the times when it wasn't better.

Then I had a second child. Once again, I had postpartum depression, but I was much more prepared for the demands of a new baby, and things seemed to go better. However, when he was just a few months old, my two-year-old was driving me crazy, hubby and I were both going to school, and I found myself yelling at the kids a lot. 

A few months later, and hubby wasn't doing too well with his job, so he started looking for something new. He told me he was going to go to the military recruiting office. I thought he was crazy. What happened when he came back was even more crazy. He actually wanted to join the Army. At first it was just the reserves or maybe the national guard, but after a day or so, he wanted to join as an active duty soldier. Two weeks later he was off to Basic Training. It was a whirlwind few weeks, but we felt like it was the right decision, so there we were. 

This is when things really started to change. We hadn't been away from each other for more than a couple of days for the four years we had known each other. Suddenly he was gone and we couldn't even talk to him except for a few minutes once a week. 

We made it through basic training and went to graduation and saw each other for a day or two. After that, it just made it harder to go the next 7 or 8 weeks of AIT and jump school. I didn't leave the house much during that time. We got ready to move and we were all packed up. We headed to Georgia to pick daddy up and move to Fort Bragg, our first duty station. But, hubby got hurt at jump school, and while we were there, he got new orders. He was headed to Korea. . . .unaccompanied.

After a few weeks at my parents home (since we were now homeless), hubby left for Korea. We stayed and I got deeper into my depression than ever before. Finally, I decided that I needed to do something about it. I went to the doctor and got started on medication. It helped, but I still spent a lot of nights up late crying, and lots of days in bed. I eventually got to go to Korea to be with hubby. But, once I got there, instead of getting better, things got worse. At this point, we had been living apart for nearly a year and a half. We had a lot of things to get used to, and at that point, I decided to go off of my medication, because I didn't feel like it was working and it had some strange side effects. 

That is about the time the hardest thing I've ever been through happened. I got pregnant with our third child, but I didn't feel like I was ready to have another baby. I had just gotten used to the idea when I had a miscarriage. For the next few weeks, I spent most of my nights crying myself to sleep. I had a four-year-old and a two-year-old who often took care of themselves while I stayed in bed. There were times when I didn't want to live anymore. I thought of killing myself. I just couldn't. I knew I had family who loved me, and I couldn't do that to them. I honestly don't know how long this went on before I got help, but it seemed like an eternity. I went to a psychiatrist for the first time, and started on a new medication. After less than a week, I felt better than I had in years. I didn't even realize how bad it was until it started getting better. I suddenly had more energy than I had since I was twelve. I wanted to do things. I was excited about life. 

Fast forward a little while. I got pregnant again, and I didn't want to be on medication when she was born, so I went off of it in my third trimester. Let me tell you, being pregnant and not having my depression medication was not an easy thing to do, but I managed.

After the baby was born, I went back on the medication. I ran out of meds at one point and decided to try going without and see how I would do.

To make a long story short. . . well, shorter . . . I went back and forth being on and off meds for the next few years. I was told by my doctor that I would probably always have to be on medication, considering my history. I tried different things to help, like exercise, essential oils, etc., and I would do really well for a few months, then I would fall back into old patterns of being tired all the time and not wanting to do things with my family and friends. 

The hardest part about writing this post is that somewhat recently, I realized (actually, it was more of a revelation from the Spirit) that I would deal with depression for the rest of my life. Naturally, that was depressing itself. I still haven't fully accepted it. I always hoped that there was some way to beat it; that someday, it just wouldn't be there anymore. However, I have come to realize that I can help others. This was the main reason I started this blog. I didn't want the blog to be entirely about depression or mental illness, but it was always in the plan to write about it. If I can help someone else feel better, or discover something about themselves, or even just make them think, that is why I write.

In conclusion, I want to say that depression is not something to be ashamed of. It doesn't just happen to those who make bad decisions or who are unrighteous. If you have depression, it doesn't mean that you've done something wrong. It also can't be cured by reading your scriptures and praying more, however those things do make it easier to cope with. If you or your loved one had diabetes, cancer, or some other disease, would you tell them that they aren't being righteous enough? No, you would tell them to go to the doctor. You would tell them to take their medications.  Of course, in any of these situations prayer can help, but you can't pray away every difficult situation.

My point wasn't to write a sob story to make you feel bad for me. Although, I admit that part of it was selfish. I haven't ever said or written all of this. It's kind of liberating to get it all out. Writing it all out reminded me that I have had good times before, and it's possible to have them again, and it's also possible to get through the tough times. I also have started to notice the signs of the depression getting bad before it gets so bad that I can't do anything about it.

In conclusion, I just wanted you to know that  I've done it before, and can do it again.

So can you! So can you!!!!

Music at Christmas

It's been over a month since my last post. I have so many things I want to post, but sometimes I just don't know how to put the thoughts into words. Actually, I do, but I don't have the time to do it. With school, the holidays, and four kids, I've been extremely busy. Aside from the excuses, I need to write now!
Yesterday at church we had our Christmas program. Every year this and the primary program are my very favorite weeks to go to church. I love music. Usually, I am in the choir, and I participate in the program. This year I was not. I got to sit and listen and join in on the congregational hymns. It was one of the best programs I've ever been to. The ward choir did an amazing job and they sang beautiful music. The testimonies that were spoken and sung were so strong that it was all I could do to keep from crying. It was a great reminder to me how the Spirit of the Lord speaks to me through music. I felt as if I was learning of the atonement and the sacrifice of Christ for the first time, even if it was Christmas music. It doesn't matter if the choir didn't sound like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They sung with the spirit and it sounded as if there were angels singing with them.
I am so grateful for music in my life. I grew up with music being important, and now I feel empty without it. I recently joined the institute choir, and it has brought so much joy to my life. I also have been playing the piano more. With four kids, it's often difficult to find time to do anything but take care of them and clean, but I feel so much more complete when I incorporate music into my life.
I hope this finds you well, and that all of you remember the life and sacrifice of the Savior. He died for me. He died for you. MERRY CHRISTMAS!