Local Presentor

I'm not sure why I haven't blogged about this before now. Heaven only knows I've shared much more mundane facets of my life on this blog, but for some reason this one event somehow seemed too special to share. I even kept the secret from most of the people that live near me (excluding some close friends and family) right up until the event. If you were at Time Out For Women a few weeks ago, you know what I'm talking about. My friend Julie was the team leader for the Cincinnati event, and early on recruited me to be a team captain. I threw myself into making preparations for the event and spreading the word as much as I could while also fulfilling my other responsibilities, but about a month before the event Julie had an extra task for me to take on: the people at Deseret Book needed a local presenter to write an essay for the event. Julie thought I should be that local presenter, and encouraged me to submit an essay detailing an assurance that I have in my life.

I put off writing the essay for more than a week. I mulled over it. I lost sleep over it. I pondered the implications of submitting an essay--fully believing that should I choose to submit one, it would be my essay that would be chosen for the event. I searched inside myself earnestly--to write the essay, I would surely delve into some very private, very personal spiritual trials that I have endured. More specifically, I knew in my heart that a truthful essay--one coming from my soul--would elaborate upon the trial of faith I have endured over the last 14 months. Was I prepared to share this part of my soul on a stage, in front of more than a thousand people? Could I write an essay that was an adequate description of what I have been through? Are there even words to describe what it is I wanted to share? Was I capable of standing on the stage, under the spotlights and in front of the camera, and deliver this essay without completely losing my composure and degenerating into a sobbing mess in front of several hundred strangers? I wrestled with these questions, and finally decided this:

If the things that I have gone through could in some small way ease the suffering of another soul, and by sharing my story in this forum I could reach them--then it is my duty and obligation--and HONOR--to do so.

I sat down and in about fifteen minutes, wrote the essay. I quickly attached it an email and sent it to the TOFW director, Laurel Christensen, before I lost my nerve. I wrote the essay on Friday afternoon, and the deadline for all essays was Monday afternoon. I anticipated having the weekend as a minimum to fret over my submission. This was not the case--within a few hours of hitting the 'send' button, I had a reply in my inbox. Laurel Christensen asked that I agree to share my story at TOFW. Even though I was extremely apprehensive about sharing such a deep part of my heart with strangers, I said yes.

I don't know why this essay was so different that writing here on my blog. Certainly many of the things that I have shared here were at least as personal--if not even more so--than this 1 page essay. I know for a fact that the things I have written on my blog have been more gritty, more honest, and more brutally painful than what I wrote for TOFW. I suppose it was the idea of standing up--in person--in front of all those people that troubled me. I'm not a terribly shy person, but I'm also not entirely comfortable with public displays of emotion. I hate crying in front of people. I don't like yelling at my kids in front of people. I share my grief pretty openly here, but in public I hide between a smile and a sometimes-false cheer. I don't feel comfortable bearing my testimony in public, or being anything other than strong and confident around strangers. I dislike being vulnerable, downtrodden, or shaken when there are people watching me.

In short, everything that I dislike--I was steeling myself to experience for this event. Surely people would see me cry. Surely I would appear vulnerable, downtrodden, and shaken while on the stage. Even more worrisome--I didn't want people to pity me. There is a look people get when they find out I'm a widow--they cock their head to the side, and a certain pity and superficial sadness enters their eyes. I hate being seen through those eyes. In the beginning of my widowhood, I felt compelled to tell everybody that I was widowed--the cashier, passersby, casual acquaintances. These days, I am much more likely to keep that part of my vital statistics to myself. I wear my wedding ring because I would rather have people assume that I'm married then have them assume that I'm not. Occasionally, people ask questions about my husband when they see me out with the kids. By and large, I do not correct them. I answer their questions as though Ammon were simply at home waiting for me--and for now, that works for me. I don't like sharing more of myself than I have to for casual conversation. Not face-to-face.

Apprehensions aside, here I am. Onstage at TOFW, sharing a very deep part of my soul with the nearly 1500 women in the room.
On the large screen next to me, pictures of Ammon and I as a newly engaged couple--then our one and only family picture--appeared.

After the pictures had shown briefly, my face was shown on the large screen. I didn't spend a lot of time during the reading of my essay looking up. I felt naked, exposed, vulnerable--but also powerful. I felt strong, and I know that the spirit and love of the women in the auditorium were buoying me up.

Before I knew it, the whole ordeal was over. In a few quick moments, all the weeks of apprehension were over. I spent the rest of the day accepting compliments and expressions of comfort from people in attendance. I had countless people approach me throughout the rest of the event, sharing appreciation for my story, and for sharing what I have learned.

Yesterday, I saw that my essay is being featured for the month of June on the TOFW website. You can access it by clicking here. To most of you, it's nothing you haven't heard from me before. Enjoy.