Don't Call me a Saint

I have been told countless times in the last six months that I am a saint. That I am a rock, devout, and an incredibly strong and faithful woman. I hate it when people say that to me. It makes me feel like an impostor, like a fake and a coward when I become aware that people have such exaggerated perceptions of my strength. I have also been told countless times "I don't know how you do it. If my husband died, I couldn't get out of bed for a month". To that I respond--yes you would. You'd get out of bed the very next day, get dressed, and brush your teeth. You would continue to make meals for your family and go grocery shopping because THAT IS WHAT YOU DO. You have no choice in the matter. The desire to curl up in bed and simply cease to exist is a luxury only afforded in Hollywood. The reality is much more harsh. The reality that the morning after your world crashes down around you, the sun still comes up. The children still get hungry, and usually--there is a funeral to plan. Once the first hellish week passes, the business of real life gets underway, and it becomes a constant contest of 'getting on with life, moving past it, and getting over you loss'. None of these things are within my control, so I get annoyed when people act as though they are. The worst, though, are the assumptions about my faith. Let me come clean about a few things: I haven't touched my scriptures in months. Once, on the eve of the one month anniversary of his death, I had a spiritual experience while reading my scriptures, but the only reason I had even picked them up was because I had a friend in the house. Always keeping up appearances, I didn't want her to know that I had completely ceased my once nightly scripture study. I rarely say my prayers. For a long time, I forced the kids and house guests to say nearly every prayer at mealtime and at bedtime. Rarely, and only under duress would I utter a prayer myself. Even less frequently would I pray for strength, comfort, understanding, or acceptance. Lately, I have made a more concerted effort to say more sincere and heartfelt prayers. I have also stopped hounding the kids to say the bulk of the prayers, and as a result they hardly say any at all. Still, I hesitate to say personal prayers at bedtime. I do it more frequently than in months past, but I have only knelt at my bedside to say a proper prayer a handful of times since Ammon's death. I have fallen prey to temptation and weakness, the likes of which most of you will never be privy to. I am still fighting to be free of those temptations, and have uttered prayers for assistance in that regard--they were even almost sincere. I am angry at God. I don't harbor much of the boiling, red hot resentment of months and weeks past, but I still don't understand why he would take a good honorable man from his family and still say "I do all these things for your good". It's beyond me, and I struggle greatly to have faith in his plan for me and for our children. I attend church weekly, but am grateful for the chance to be in primary where I am not forced to listen to lessons in Sunday School and Relief Society. Occasionally a particularly good Sacrament Meeting talk will touch my heart, and sometimes the simplicity of the children's lessons will reach me. Most of the time, though, I am going through the motions.

I'm not even sure why I feel compelled to share these things on here. I suppose because I know that there are other Latter Day Saints out there reading, other widows, and also people who have no religious convictions at all. I suppose I hope to dispel the notion that there is a 'right' and a 'wrong' way to grieve when you're a religious person. The thing is, I have no doubt about God or his existence. I haven't questioned for a minute his divinity or that there is an eternity to look forward to. I question the goodness of his plan for me, but I don't question for a second that there is one. Does this make me a good saint? Does this make me a spiritual person, intent on living a life worthy of the highest degree of glory? I don't know. But I do believe that it excludes me from the label of being a 'strong, faithful woman'. I'm simply a woman who is struggling with demons that some of you know nothing about, and grief that is so monumental that I there isn't a single living soul I can share it with. Today Kadon brought home an 'All About Me' worksheet from preschool. It had spots for several fill in the blank questions: My favorite toy is ______. My eyes are ________and my hair is __________. The one that tore my heart out is the one that was left blank: I love to ________ with my Dad. What good could possibly come from this loss? I don't think I'm faithful enough to figure it out.