Heavy

I drove while he studied, glancing at the GPS, alternating the wipers between high and low in the storm. The kids read, played, ate, and fought in the back. Driving stole my usual distractions – cell phone, Netflix, facebook, to do list – leaving me at the mercy of my thoughts.

About halfway through the planned 1 hour and 45 minute drive, I found myself holding back tears, hoping my expression didn’t reveal my anguish, fears, frustration. I focused on where we were headed – to worship in a quiet temple, separate from the world, demands of everyday, and other distractions. I needed this. I did my best to not let the pouring rain, dreary day, and complaining kids get to me. All would be okay. I would have peace to sort through my thoughts and feelings soon enough.

Then the unexpected toll bridge arrived, followed by the GPS losing the road, and our subsequently losing 10 minutes. All was still okay. We would make it in time. Then we came up to the road block, barring the only way in we knew to town. I could feel all those competing emotions rising to the surface as we drove around for 20 minutes until finally discovering a back road. Only later would we ask why we didn’t consider simply driving past the sign.

As we arrived at our destination, I dropped my husband off in hopes that he could buy us a few minutes while I brought the kids to babysitting. Timing was essential because, although the temple welcomed us all day, we only had a 2 hour window for babysitting. I rushed my tired, wet, and frustrated children inside, unceremoniously handing over my crying baby and running out the door. As I closed the car door, I tried to push back the guilt at leaving them so hurriedly.

When I pulled into the parking lot and saw him waiting under an umbrella, I knew we hadn’t made it in time. All that effort: the early morning wake up, preparing food and toys for the car, enduring the weather, all to arrive too late. We walked toward the temple doors and all those feelings, frustrations, and guilt rushed forth, escaping as big, gulping, tears. I let them out for a few minutes while he held me, wishing I could somehow express what was wrong beyond this moment.

We went inside to make the best of things, to serve, to worship, to feel that needed peace. I felt odd and exposed, clearly red eyed, barely holding back my emotions. I had so many questions to ask God that day: Why, when I was doing the right thing, were there so many roadblocks? Did He really know my needs because some days it didn’t feel like it. How could I feel so irrationally down when so much in my life was right? Was He really there because some days I feel so alone? Why did I feel like a light once so bright, yet currently diminished?

The answers didn’t come rushing forth like the miracle I expected. I didn’t feel instant peace. In fact, I let out streaming tears while I spoke to my Heavenly Father, my sweet husband simply putting his hand on my shoulder and I felt that unreasonable guilt for putting him through that. When we finished, I left feeling less burdened, less alone, and more able to make the best of the day ahead. It wasn’t what I’d waited for, wanted, expected, but it was something.

We enjoyed some family time, then he set aside his studies to drive home. When I asked him why, he said he thought we should talk. Then I felt tongue-tied, embarrassed, uncertain, and talked about everything except the big elephant in the room for the next 2 hours. He didn’t push. A part of me wanted him to, another felt enormous relief that he didn’t.

Later that day, I found a way to explain my morning, some of the feelings, with my mom. The feelings of heaviness, of a diminished light, of apathy, of decreased motivation, of guilt for feeling anything but happy. How it wasn’t like before, a deep sorrowful pit. Back then, I was so trapped I couldn’t see the hole I was in. Not so now. I can see the pit ahead if I don’t tread carefully. Some days I even shovel dirt inside and walk around it. Other days, I see the shovel, but dangle my feet in the pit instead.

I finally opened up to my husband that night, scared that I wouldn’t be able to explain it, worried to add any burden to his, unsure if talking about it made it more than it was. And he was, of course, wonderful and understanding, even talking about it as potentially part of the process of culture shock. It opened the door to talk about other things, to admit fears and doubts, to remind ourselves that we’re in this together.

In quiet moments since then, I’ve pondered that day and the way I’ve felt since. I’d expected a miracle, an instant change. I should know by now that God often doesn’t work that way. While I only saw roadblocks, problems, and discouragements that day, all those things led me to what I really needed: To allow myself to cry, to share my burden, to say it out loud, to let others help me fill in that hole, to know I wasn’t alone, and that these feelings won’t be forever. Most of all, to know that someone still sees my light as bright as ever, even if it feels dim to me.

I’m not sure why I’m sharing this. Perhaps to explain my emptier than usual blog. Perhaps to say it out loud in another way so I won’t try to hide it away again, hurting in silence. But mostly, I think, to say this: If you’re feeling alone, if you are frustrated, down, or discouraged, it doesn’t have to be rational to be real. Even when it seems that everything should feel right, sometimes we don’t. And that is okay. It doesn’t have to define us. It won’t be forever. You don’t need to be able to explain it to reach out to someone. You don’t have to endure it alone.