CHRISTUS INVICTUS

In the racing, screaming
Silent cell
Weak, whimpering
In my body's hell

Eyes look upward
Sobs turn sweet
Warm arms embrace:
Father, daughter meet

Loved, unburdened
Floods of mercy flow
Peace, identity
All my life to owe

Though amazed,
Not ignorant of the cause
The "why" I kneel
In humble awes

A price was paid
For this communion sweet
A Life laid down
At justice's feet

An atonement made
For all mankind,
A way, The Way
To reunite with The Divine

An Endless Sacrifice
Why this must be
Required of the Innocent One?
I ask in humility

His sincere reply
In visions unfold:
Matchless love
Anguish untold

Just for me

That I may understand
That Jesus of Nazareth
Was more than
"Just a man"

Eyes opening
To His celestial rank
The horrors endured
With little thanks

The injustice, the pain
A projector in my mind
Seeing, feeling,
His unyielding love divine

Keep His commandments?
Is that all He asks?
Shouldn't there be more?
To repay such a task?

I'll do it all!
Words, songs, thoughts of praise
Revere, worship
All my days

I will thank

The God I know
In heartfelt extols
For the gift of His Son's
Unconquerable soul

----

The Wine Press of Grief
Forget? Never! I vow,
The Garden, His body bloodied
Reverently, I bow

In abject spirits
When I can't brook more
I think of The Kind One
Blood from every pore

When wronged by friend or foe
Anger seething my skin
I think of The Meek One
In hours most dim:

Nails pound through His bone
Still He chooses to live
Hung on a cross of hate
Speaks, "Father, forgive."

 For little brother, sister
Divine determination
Spat on, whipped, rejected
By man, His own creation

That Light descended
To the blackest pit of all
So the most base, vile being
Can reach upward if he calls

Because He understands

The grotesque of sin
The hysteria of shame
The dungeon of "alone"
The emaciated, maimed
The addict's tomb
The hold of secret chains
The abuser, the abused
The muted, the mundane
The exhaustion of the world
The bedlam of "insane"
The burning greed of body
The full spate of the brain

And mercifully, God,

--Inestimable memory
Superlative, intelligent
Forgets my wrongs
...When I repent

Truly

The Genesis of grace
The Exodus of gloom
Obviating danger
My own bright future blooms

So yes,

Alone--broken, dead,
Unequipped, I may be
A waltzing automaton
In trite mimicry

But under His tutelage
Conforming to The Son
I find happy, wacky, Rachael
My dark nights--all done

With The Family everlasting
Priesthood again on earth
Death and Hell mastered
The Finisher in berth

The orb of time shattered
The world laid out in scrolls
Christ conquered His fate
With blood, He bought our souls


CHRISTUS INVICTUS

Soul-Seeing: Two Years without Makeup

I remember the dream. I was staring at myself in the mirror of my college basement apartment. Like some dreams, the edges of the visual frame were blurry. Like I was watching a movie—both in the production and observing the production in one chimerical, nebulous moment. I watched myself prepare for the day. I applied makeup. First, foundation. A lot of it. Then blush. Then bronzer. Then eyeshadow, sparkles, liner, and so on and so forth until the canvas of my face was nothing short of resplendent. With empty eyes I stared. Confused.  “I thought I was more beautiful than this” was the impression that entered my mind.

I picked up a sponge and slowly began wiping the makeup off my face. Stroke by stroke the painted veneer was removed. It took a long time. A very long time. Hours…hours. My hands and arms moved slowly. Thoughtfully. With purpose. I felt so calm.

Then I awoke.

I walked to the same mirror from my dream. Then, in perfunctory fashion, I did in real life and real time what I had just seen: I primped for the day. Except unlike the dream I didn’t remove it afterwards. I looked fantastic. Truly. A bouffant of red, lavish hair, dramatic brown eyes, scarlet lips…but I felt so sad inside. I did not feel beautiful. I wanted to cry. But I didn’t. Mostly because I didn’t know how. I didn’t feel much emotion back then. I wanted to feel, really, but my feelings were distant, and ominous though it may sound, dead.  So I did the best I could, and carried on. I was nineteen.

When I was twenty-one I was to Mexico for vacation. It was Christmas time. The air was humid and thick. It was night and I knelt beside my bed on the cold, concrete ground. Gosh, I was so unhappy. And see, Mormons don’t drink, don’t do drugs, and don’t participate in promiscuity, so if I wished to live consistently with my faith—and oh, how badly I did! With my WHOLE HEART—I couldn’t escape like many other hurting souls might escape. So I prayed. I asked for clarity and what to do for healing. I poured out my heart. I told God how miserable and lost I felt and plead for guidance and the faith to press on. Dramatic? Yes. Ernest and true, though? Yes! As I sat in silence, letting myself feel still, an impression came to my mind.

It was this clear thought: “Face your fears.”

“No.

No.

No.

PLEASE. GOD. NO.”

I audibly whispered.

If the body could scream in silence, that is what mine was doing.

And my greatest fear? One, at the time, that induced chaos, dread, and painful anxiety at just the thought?

…was to not wear makeup.

…..to not wear makeup.

To not. Wear. Makeup. That’s it. That was it.

(Oooh scary makeup *in the voice of Emperor Kuzco*)

Obviously there was much more to that. Obviously there were underlying wounds of profound worthlessness. Inexorable hauntings of childhood pain. True belief I was unfit to be loved. Chasms of criticism, harbors of hate, and overall ardent determination to forever conceal twenty-one years of owies. What I convinced myself to be indelible emotional scars that must be tucked safe away.

And, for me, at that time, makeup was just that safe blanket over my hidden grief.

I didn’t really understand all that back then: the connection between my fear to be vulnerable (not wear make-up) and all my hurt feelings. I just knew I would rather be dead than let someone see me. And me, at the time, in my mind, was just pain.

The first day I ventured out on BYU campus makeup-less, I focused on my breathing. I looked at the ground. At my feet. It was winter semester. The mountains were covered in beautiful snow. But I kept my naked eyes down. I attended my classes. I talked with my acquaintances. Looking in their eyes was difficult. I felt prickles of panic clinging on my skin and creeping up my throat.  I prayed.

“God..please God…help me. I. feel. So. UGLY. Hold me. Please.” I felt a warm feeling in my heart.

I walked on. Bathrooms were my favorite places. I cried in their stalls. Still I prayed. All day. I had never prayed so hard and so much.

I had never needed to.

But boy, oh boy, I needed to now.

Spanish class was particularly difficult. I already loathed the exposure of my imperfection when I spoke my broken Spanish, but now, broken Spanish spoken with pale lips, dull eyes, and a broken heart was more than I could bear. And WORST OF ALL. WORST OF ALL. THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BOY IN ALL OF PROVO SAT BESIDE ME. Of course he did. Of course he looked like 1941 Jimmy Stewart with all the class, charm, and intelligence in the world. Of course he was goofy and funny and kind and spoke Spanish BEAUTIFULLY with his chestnut locks falling perfectly over his green eyes. Yep. Yep. Of course he was perfect. And of course he sat beside me. I remember smiling at him one day, and in my head telling him “I promise you, I’m beautiful. You might not be able to see it, but I’m beautiful.”

And slowly as the days and weeks crawled by I began to act as I thought a beautiful woman would act. Kindly. Bravely. Generously…I still felt all my owies but I began to feel a little light shine in.

I continued to pray.

When I looked at myself in the mirror one day and mean, nasty thoughts (complete lies) yelled at my reflection, I spoke out loud, “The way you are speaking to yourself, Rachael, is unacceptable. And it will not be tolerated.”

Lots of things began changing.

I moved across the country and joined a weightlifting team.

I began being more obedient in keeping God’s commandments.

I began trusting Him more.

I began repenting.

I began praying more sincerely and feeling more connected to Deity during those prayers.

I began having real friendships.

I began feeling sad and angry. Really angry. Like can’t breathe, can’t function, angry. I felt it all. Forgave. And it passed. With the Savior’s help.

I began feeling hope.

I began to begin to understand the healing power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ.

I began feeling…love, again.

Truer than I ever had. Holy even.

I saw a woman standing waiting for the bus carrying groceries one day. Her hair was greasy. Her face had acne scars. Her eyes and cheeks drooped. I felt a wave of love for this stranger sweep through me. I began to cry. I arrived home and sat in my car, overcome. And this thought entered my mind, “This. This must be how God feels for His children.” I cried some more. They were good tears. Tears of compassion. That was new for me.

At the checkout aisle in the discount grocery store the obese man who scanned my groceries had a faded tattoo hiding in the fat folds of his chapped wrist. Barely discernible it read:

“HOPE.”

I felt my heart ache and love from a Pure Source entered. I tried to communicate without words that he was loved. When I our eyes met and I spoke, “Thank you,” I spoke with all the kindness I could. And again I thought “This. This must be how God feels for His children.”  

There was a woman at Wal-mart. She was skin and bones with glaring pink hair and the croaking voice of a heavy smoker. Life had beat her up. Badly. It was apparent for all to see. As I walked past, we smiled at each other. My heart broke. I felt love for this woman that did not come from me. Her smile revealed her crooked teeth.

Slowly, as I emotionally allowed the Lord to enter my heart, His love began to displace yucky feelings that once consumed me.  And little by little the belief in “ugly” in myself and in others began to fade. Acrimonious mental and emotional turmoil crumbled away. Determination replaced apathy. Friendships bloomed on once fear-filled soil.  I rediscovered lipstick. And mascara. And sparkles!! And I love it!  But it feels different now. I feel different. I feel enough. No matter what. I don’t have to prove anything to anyone or show anyone who I am. Or hide anything. God sees me and knows my heart.

And that is enough.

I guess all of this jibber jabber and thought-sharing points to one main idea:

We never know the layers that exist inside of someone. The potential he or she has. Or the pain he or she has experienced. But God does. He is our Father. He created us. He loves us. With an everlasting love.  As I have accepted this truth into my heart I have learned that He sees differently than we do and wants to teach us how He sees: clearly. Without constraints of time, appearance of body, man-made prestige, worldly abuse, or emotional pain—so acrid and confusing at times. He sees us as we were as children: innocent. And as we can become when we repent and give our heart to His Beloved Son, Jesus Christ: free.

I am still learning. But this I do know: I want to be free. Free from this world and live in a better world that I know exists because I have felt it in my heart. I have seen it in my dreams and in the eyes of children. And I want it. I want to be a woman and a child—all at the same time. I want grace and wisdom and wonder. I believe that Jesus Christ is the answer. It is His mercy that is the mighty healer. I know He is the way, and the only way, to fill the soul’s deepest hunger. Let us seek Him.

.

If God had Children

If God had children

How many would there be?

Just a few—

Two or three?

Or after

The grandeur of His majesty

An infinitude

Like the sands of the sea?

If God had children

How would they be?

Brilliant and fair

With grace and creativity?

Bright and curious

Filled with mirth and delight

Fearless, determined

With all their little might

Some pensive, profound

Gallant or genteel

Others mild, benign

With great capacity to feel

Boundless joys

In love’s rich quay

Happiness to burst!

Or weeping Niobes

Each child

Possessing a seed,

A soul spark,

Of true magnanimity

Spawned from glory

Envisage the sight!

Children of One

Omniscient, Holy, and Light

If God had children

How would they learn?

How would He teach them

Show parental concern?

Lessons of courage,

Compassion, integrity

Sacrifice, strength… 

Does such come free? 

Would they know,

When they’re away,

Their Father rapt

In each protégé?

Ceaseless care,

Love amaranthine

Watching over

His precious kin

Would there be a moment,

Swift, as a breath,

A mortal life

Of testing, of death?

Far from a home

Hallowed and dear,

Chapters begin in a

Terrestrial sphere

A curtain of forgetting

Slumber, if you may,

Entering a world unknown

Stranger every day

Rudiments of wonder

Still apparent for eyes that see

Golden threads of spirit

Shimmering with possibility

Beauteous surroundings

The warmth of family

An endless dawn

This new journey can be!

…Amidst overwhelming chaos

That blankets society?

Disaster, noise!

How does one fit?

In this world of

Hearts disconsolate?

Racing, rushing!

Who to believe?

When days—years—

Feel dry and paltry 

With the winds of life

Harsh and cruel

We, heirs of Divinity?

Notions of a fool!

So resplendent spirits

In shells uncouth

Demand “where is God?

Give me proof!”

Oh my friends…

If only I could

Help you remember

Help you feel,

By sharing my own experience,

His love so real:

The Peaceful One

Calming mind’s morass

Tempestuous waves

To seas of glass.

Potholes of sadness

Like acne on my heart

To wells of compassion

A merciful new start

Lingering memories,

Albeit, still exist

Reminding of His grace

While I waded through the mist

When I cursed the sun

For shining in its place

While I sunk, water rising,

Immured in a broken vase.

When my soul’s vast cathedral

Capacious, made of stone,

Was filled not with beauty,

Just me, all alone.

Memories of thoughts,

The constant despair

Baffle me, humble me,

That I was once there.

So when I speak

Of celestial design

A great, Eternal plan

A Savior to come

Atone for man

A Friend, a Healer,

The very Son of God,

Know it comes not from vain belief,

Naïveté, or fraud.

It’s because of my travels,

Though young in years,

Through tundra and temple—

Eternity’s mirrors—

That I say what I say

And do what I do

Thus I declare:

A Heavenly Heritage, destiny—

It’s true!

GOD DOES HAVE CHILDREN.

It’s me. It’s you!

Certainly: A Poem

I remember that night
Air cold as can be
The stars bright
Beckoning and free

Someone seeing the light that flickered in me
"I am here" was whispered gently.

"No!" My fist shook toward Heaven
How can it be?!
Thou saidest that Thou lovest me?
This sepulchral pit that is my heart
Cannot see nor feel Thy love impart.

"Rachael, trust Me"
The voice implored

I wept, I quivered,
I ignored.

This life of pain that is my lot
Caged mind with impetuous thought

Anger and hurt far too deep
A silent tongue to never speak

My living soul that yearns to breath
But entombed I remain
In shrieking cacophony

No.
No.
Surely there cannot be,
A God in Heaven who lovest me.

A voice again,
This one my own,
Reason? Conscious?
Perhaps faith alone.

"How will you know what is in store

If you don't, at least, 

Test out His word?" 

My heart ached

Knowing its truth 

Remain in darkness--

Coldly aloof 

Or 

Walk a road only One has been 

With just the hope 

His hand He'll lend 

I wept, I quivered, 

I implored 

"Lead me then!" 

He did not ignore. 

Hope filled my being

So much I could burst 

Tears in my eyes 

Replete was my thirst!

I smiled. My heart did as well 

In awe I grasped,

"This is how it feels, 

To not be in hell." 

Since that night

Years have gone by 

Light and love poured down  

I cannot deny

My own road to Damascus 

Thus will I try 

Day by day 

To offer all

A small sacrifice 

For relieving my gall 

In humble prayer,

Willingly now I kneel

Remembering the times 

My heart did not feel

Grateful, 

I approach Heaven's door 

Pouring out my soul 

Somehow sure 

If my eyes opened 

I would see 

Pierced hands and wrists 

Rest on me

  

But I keep my eyes shut

A child waits patiently 

For her reunion 

How will it will be?  

In the arms of Jesus,
certainly: 

"Thank You, for always,
always loving me." 

Cheese-its and Gatorade: My First Heartbreak

The mirror had a gold frame. Not the thick, cheap kind; this was delicate, lovely, like it was woven together with gold thread from the spindle wheel of Rumpelstiltskin. That is what my 4-year-old mind thought anyway as I stood alone in the large, pallid room examining the garnish. The rest of the room was empty, except the beat-up mattress on the floor. There were a few boxes full of old pictures that sat in the hallway downstairs—what was left of our belongings after the violent house fire a few weeks before. The rest of the new house was like the room with the mirror—empty. It didn’t feel like that though. Especially at night. My two sisters, my two brothers, and I squeezed on the old mattress beside my mom—the five of us and her—as she read us stories by candlelight. The electricity hadn’t been turned on yet, but that didn’t matter to me. Her rich, steady voice seemed to chase away the shadows and blanket us with warmth.

I didn’t worry about much when Mom was close by.

Then I was six and we were somewhere new. A new state, a new life, a new home. This one had large holes in the walls and cold concrete floors. Dying grass and a stooped, mourning willow tree decorated the chipped and faded pink brick exterior. I heard the kid behind me on the field trip bus refer to my home as “The Dump” as we sped by one day. I left for a summer to visit my dad and when I returned the holes were gone and the walls were filled and painted over with pretty yellow and mint green diamonds. The spongy, textured kind that takes lots of time and concentration. The floors had soft rugs and there was a garden outside. Around a much happier willow tree and tucked safely behind a small, hand-crafted stone wall lay a bed of mulch with soft, fuzzy lamb’s ear and chive plants growing inside. Prolific tulip bulbs lined the side of our home springing forth velvety pinks and reds; the vines that engulfed the front entrance were trimmed back to reveal vibrant trumpet flowers of oranges and fuchsias. The hummingbirds loved those and ceaselessly danced around them. The vibrating rhythmic pulse of their wings was but a quiet lull to the songs my mom hummed to herself as she fixed, planted, and scrubbed away.

Mom made everything beautiful.

Then I was eleven and we were in Quincy, Illinois. I asked my mom why this remote little town? She said, “it feels right.” That was always her answer. Even if it meant driving across the country in a 1996 Buick with the clicky clack of a small, makeshift trailer bumping behind. We knew the house when we saw it: tiny, baby yellow and perfect. Rays of sunshine peaked through the tall oak tree out front and the lop-sided “For Rent” sign stood near the peaceful road, like it was waiting just for us. After we settled in, the doors were always open. My mom let in the most peculiar of people. Brandi was one girl. She had boney shoulders, big eyes, and fidgety hands. She was pregnant and alone; her husband was serving overseas in Iraq. When I asked why Brandi was at our home Mom took me aside, crouched down so she was eye to eye with me, and replied,

“She needs a friend”

“Where did you meet her?”

“At the grocery store”

“But how did you know to talk to her?”

“I just…I just felt I should….it feels right.”

Mom had special Mom-senses for helping people; sometimes I wondered if she was an angel in disguise.

It was December later that year. We were at church. My Sunday school teacher was sick so my mom filled in to teach the class. It was right before Christmas so the lesson was on the birth of Jesus Christ. Mom brought in a baby; she borrowed him from a friend. He was fat, bald, and looked like an alien. He sat upright in his rocker with his blue bug-eyes staring at our class of six as my mom began speaking. She told us God loved us all so much He sent His Son to come to earth. He—the King of Kings, the greatest of all—would be born in poverty with farm animals for company and straw for a bed.

She gestured to the bemused infant on display and softly said, “Imagine, all that love, all that glory…in a small baby who came to save us all.”

She had tears in her eyes. They were beautiful tears. My heart felt still like a gentle spring rain or a vast starry night. I knew she loved Him. This Jesus. She knew Him, and loved Him. Not in a faint or superficial kind of way. But in the most sorrowful and exquisite kind of way. It pierced my heart and I knew my life would never really feel full until I sought this Savior out for myself.  That day my mom endowed me with something of incomparable worth—faith in Christ, The Lord.

Mom gave the best gifts.

Seasons passed. The busy, self-centeredness of adolescence replaced the naïveté of youth. I began to notice more about my mom. I was too preoccupied with after-school theater programs or sports to really care, but I noticed.

Her clothes were battered hand-me-downs of my sister and mine.

She walked everywhere to save money on gas. Then tucked away what was saved so we could afford a Christmas tree or groceries.

Her eyes said, “I’m sorry” a lot. Like when I asked her if I could buy a pair of pants while looking around in The Salvation Army store. They were on the $4 rack. She said to find something on the $1 rack. I picked out a belt.

She became really tired sometimes. Like so exhausted she couldn’t move. Her health was not so great back then. Sometimes we were in public places and she needed help walking. Her arm around my shoulder and her weight on mine, we hobbled along. (That one was hardest to ignore).

She made dinner every night. Often sautéed green beans and ground turkey. I love green beans. I gobbled happily away trying not to notice that she was always the last one to eat…if she did eat.

One time I walked into her room when it was dark. She was on her knees by her bedside with her arms folded in prayer. Feeling the reverence in the room I quickly closed the door. But not before I saw her body trembling and heard quiet sobs. (These tears were not the beautiful kind.) I didn’t really understand why she was crying. I didn’t understand the weight of a parent, especially a single parent. But I felt sad for her. It was the same sad feeling I experienced in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer Stone when Harry stumbles across the dying unicorn in the forbidden forest. Alone in the silvery moonlight he witnesses the suffering of something so pure, so majestic—it leaves a different type of scar on him. But as quickly as I turned the page to unravel the looming scheme of a surreptitious Snape, I hurried off to play rehearsal…and my bleeding unicorn was pushed to the back of my mind.

Finally I was sixteen and on my way to an out-of-town tennis tournament (my first one as a varsity athlete!). Before I hopped in the white twelve-seated van I stopped at the principal’s office. The intercom announced there was a package waiting for me. No one ever left me anything—I wondered what it could be! Curiously, I picked up the grocery bag and kept it tightly shut until I squeezed my way into the back corner of the van. I untied the crinkly bag. Inside was a box of Cheese-Its (not the cheap, off-brand kind but the expensive yummy stuff) and a big bottle of Gatorade with a note: “Good luck Rachael. I love you. –Mom”

That did it. Everything I “noticed” over the years but never really internalized hit me in that moment. That is when it happened. 

 My heart. It broke. I felt it sink and tear apart in my chest.

A wave of love so strong and so powerful entered I could not physically bear it. This love was the reason behind every sacrifice and every tear, the reason she gave all she had and still when she had nothing—literally nothing left to give—she found some way to keep giving. That is the love of a mother. MY mother. I turned my head towards the window so my teammates wouldn’t notice the tears streaming down my face. I hugged the Cheese-It box close to my heart and whispered almost inaudibly, with all the earnestness of my soul, “Thank You Heavenly Father…Thank You for giving me Mom.”

Now I’m grown up. And far away. But I see her every day. In the way the corners of my eyes wrinkle when I smile. The way I laugh so hard and keel over so no sound comes out. The way I pray when I’m by myself. The way I hug. The way I see beauty. The way I dream. The way I suffer. The way I believe. All that is just a reflection of her. And she, through refining fire and soul bending, is just a reflection of Jesus Christ. Maybe if I try to be more like her, I’ll end up a little more like Him.  

…That feels right...

How I Was Introduced to the Barbell

My Own World

Inhale. Exhale. I gripped the desk and stared blankly in the distance.

Stay in your seat, Rachael. It’s just an anxiety attack. Food isn’t going to help. You don’t need to escape. C’mon Rach. You got this. You’re safe here. Distract your mind.

Word by word I went over in my head the quote that hung in a brown frame in my little brother’s room.

“The greatest battle of life is fought out within the silent chambers of the soul. A victory on the inside of a man's heart is worth a hundred conquests on the battlefields of life….”

And again,

“The greatest battle of life…”

Breath.

Stay present Rach. It’s okay. You’re okay. Wait it out. Don’t turn off your conscience.  Just…Wait. These feelings will pass.

Breath

Maybe a hymn will help.

I silently sang to myself the first lyric that popped into my head.

“I need Thee every hour, stay Thou near by. Temptations lose their power when Thou art nigh. I need Thee. Oh, I need Thee. Every hour I need Thee…”

I kept breathing. In and out. I realized my fingers were white from grasping the desk. I was glad I was sitting in the back row of my class so no one could tell I was in my own world, fighting.

My thoughts became less focused and began to wander to darker places.

What’s wrong with me?…Will I be like this forever?...Heavenly Father…help me.

That was a common phrase I petitioned to heaven. Sometimes I was specific in my requests and sometimes I wasn’t. And sometimes I didn’t even know what to ask for, other than help. I thought about the last real sincere prayer I said, a couple weeks before. It had been a really bad day. I was walking out of Gold’s Gym on 9^th East. To my left were the treadmills and ellipticals, to my right the front desk full of workers wearing black t-shirts with garish yellow words “Change your body, Change your life!” I looked behind me at the crowded gym full of kids in high school, like me. I felt alone, trapped, and powerless over my life. That was when I uttered my plea.   

Please…Bless me with someone to workout with. I am struggling, Father. Bless me with people to be accountable to. I can’t do this by myself.

My thoughts calmed down a bit as I thought about that incident weeks before, hoping that God had heard me. I was brought back to reality with the shrieking of the hallway bell. Class was over. I made it through—that hour anyway.

A Fateful Encounter

That afternoon I skipped down the aisle off the school bus. School was over, and there was literally sunshine in my soul. That happened on the rare occasions I chose to battle my demons instead of giving in. My heart would swell up really big (like some kind of hug from heaven) after getting through rough moments. (Or rough minutes. Or rough hours.) This time it was especially sweet. That day, like every day, I attended a scripture study seminary class during my free period. I didn’t remember the lesson or the words—something about The Savior, Jesus. But I did remember how I felt. And it was hope. A beautiful, inordinate amount; it burned in my heart. The peace, confidence, and…hope. Thus the reason for my skipping.

I jumped off the school bus four stops before my house—a block away from Gold’s Gym. I KNEW I was going to have an awesome workout. I schemed about how many miles I would run on the treadmill (9? 10?!) as I frolicked down the sidewalk, forgetting that not too many hours before I cowered in the shackles of my mind.

“Wow. You are really happy.” The man at the front desk commented as he scanned my gym membership.  

Wow. YOU ARE REALLY GORGEOUS.

“Well,” I replied, “It’s been a good day!”

“Anything particular?”

I hesitated. My thoughts raced.

Do I tell him I feel God’s love for me and that everything is going to be okay? Is that stupid? But it’s true. That’s why I’m happy. But I can’t tell him that. That’s uncool. I want to be cool. How do I be cool??

“Juusst…I feel…good. It was one of those days where I felt like there was someone watching over me. And I just feel…happy. Like how true happy feels.”

Was that okay? PC? Probably not. I don’t care.

“Huh.” He grunted. He looked at me.

Gosh, he was beautiful.

He just kind of looked at me. Trying to figure me out. I could tell he was surprised at my response. (I guess randomly mentioning deity is not something most people do or should do. I don’t know these things...But I couldn’t lie!)

He clicked his pen, looked down at the countertop, looked back up at me. He finally spoke: “Tell ya what. My client that was scheduled for personal training right now didn’t show. I have a free slot. It’s all yours if you want it. Call it good karma.”

“Um, okay!”

I quickly ran to the locker room, changed, and met him minutes later by the free weights.

Commitment

WAIT, WHAT?????

I had just returned to the gym after my jog. It was a lovely run. It was dusk outside. The sky was clear but the autumn air was chilly. Provo was especially beautiful that night. I told Bryan, the man at the desk, I would think about his offer and return within the hour to give him an answer. After our free half-hour training session he gave me the once-in-a-lifetime-Gold’s-Gym-Personal-Training-Package-change-your-body-change-your-life schpeal. And surprisingly, it felt right. But I needed to think first. Running always helped me think.

Personal training? A year commitment? All my savings from working at the bagel shop? Oi. Vey. But…what if…it worked. What if this helped me? The kind of help I’ve been praying for? Heavenly Father, I’m going to do this. I want to do this. I hope that’s okay. I promise, I won’t forget Thee. Even when I become thin and beautiful, I won’t forget Thee…

Now my run was over. Reflection time had past. And I was sitting at Bryan’s corporate office signing my life away. 

“Could you repeat that, please?” I swallowed.

I hope I misheard him. 

“Kaleb Whitby will be your trainer.”

He motioned to the solemn, stalky blond man a few feet away standing near the lat machine.

Kaleb WHO???

My heart sank. I guess I just thought this Persian-looking prince would train me forever.

I looked over again at the blond man.

Suck. He isn’t even cute.*

“Okay,” I submitted. “Sounds good.”

Kaleb and I met and immediately I trusted him. We talked for a little bit. About fitness goals. Body composition. Habits. When our next appointment would be. Then we shook hands. And that was that. I had no idea that handshake was the advent of my most soul-wrenching crusade yet.

The Real Journey Begins

Before then, I really didn’t understand my struggles. I had always experienced anxiety at different times in my life varying from mild to severe. In addition to that, I always felt complex feelings of emptiness and fear, just from existing. Some days I hurt. And I didn’t understand why. Like this life felt heavy and unfamiliar. I also never understood some of my habits. Very personal behaviors that had always been a part of me. Since I was a kid there were times—randomly, no triggers at all—where I would eat. And eat. And I couldn’t stop. Completely helpless. And it scared me. It didn’t stem from poor body image or deep feelings of inadequacy or perfectionism. It just was there. This sudden, shaking inability to stop until I physically could not move, for hours sometimes. It was odd. I hated it. But I didn’t know how to change. Or even what the source was. But I knew God knew and I trusted that He would place people in my life that had the tools to help me.

Kaleb and I began working together. My goal weight was 140lbs. (After all, Tom Cruise’s wife, Katie Holmes, was my height and 130lbs; it only made sense in my 18 year old mind that I should be near that).

“We’ll get you there,” Kaleb reassured me.

We scheduled in cardio sessions and a variety of resistance training exercises that consisted of leg presses, lunges, and light free weights. Once I was in the gym, training, I loved it! It was so enjoyable. My mind felt clear. I felt calm and in control.

But getting there proved to be a bigger challenge than I anticipated. Each day I felt opposition like I had never experienced. It was like invisible tsunami waves ferociously pushing against me trying to keep me from the gym and forming healthy habits. The infrequent, but still present, unrestrained food episodes of my past, surfaced again with more force—submerging me in depths of discouragement, confusion, and isolation. My unreached, and in my mind unreachable, fitness goal of “thinness” proved to be a brutal, unforgiving source of self-contempt. I resented my life, my accountability to Kaleb, and the fact I had to battle every second of every day simply to function like a normal person. I thought this personal training commitment would make my life better, but really, it had turned everything into a terrible mess. I decided it was time to reach out to those around me.

Confession and (Iron) Conversion

Kaleb and I sat down at his desk located at the front end of the gym, right by the windows. Light streamed in from the late afternoon sun making the spotted black floor dance with sunbeams. It was springtime.

I took a few big breaths of courage. I had never told anyone what I was going to tell him. I didn’t even know how. What to say, how much to say or how to say it. I felt like a child—small, insecure, and painfully vulnerable.

I looked directly at Kaleb and opened my mouth. I spoke slowly, deliberately, and from the deepest most secret sincere part of my heart. “I am struggling with some compulsive behaviors, but I believe through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, I can be freed.”

And that’s all I said. That’s all I knew how to say.

He looked at me. And nodded. He didn’t ask any questions. He didn’t try to understand. He just nodded. We stood up. The sunbeams continued to dance behind him.

He looked across at the gym. Took a breath and spoke, “Okay…Let’s get strong.”

We began lifting. Actually lifting. Bench pressing. Squatting. Rowing. Pressing and pulling. Heavily with low volume and high intensity. We threw away the scale and with it false expectations and unhealthy pressures. I worked. I prayed. I fought…I showed up. No matter how empty or compulsive I felt, I was there. And slowly, as I transcended circumstance, animosity, and cruel persuasions of a so-called destiny, I proved to myself, my God, and the adversary that who I am and what I can do cannot and will not be confined.

And that, that is how I was introduced to the barbell.

*Kaleb if you’re reading this, I mean no offense!