Besides little notes in my journal about powerful moments in
my life, I spent most of my time pretending hard things had not happened—or
internally dwelling on the fact that they did. One night during the trial I got
this overwhelming feeling I needed to write. I sat down at my laptop and words
began to pour out of me.
Heartache, pain, fear, hate—all of the emotions that had
been trapped felt clear as they escaped from their hideouts. As I typed, I
pictured who would ever read the words I could now see on the screen—NO ONE. EVER.
Maybe my kids when they were grown and parents of their own children; maybe at
a distant time when their own personal struggles left them feeling a need to
know about their past.
I pictured handing them a stack of papers—possibly made into
a nice covered book—and looking into their eyes and saying, “Now you will
remember why it still hurts.”
I was so full of bitterness and pain it was woven into every
page I typed. Each story was filled with the hate I had been carrying for the
three people in them. Each letter on the screen was racked with fear. In those
moments of writing I could not see the silver linings. I could not see the
angels. I couldn’t even remember the happy times—all I could write was the
pain.
It only lasted a few nights. Many pages filled with my hate,
and the stories of the past. Soon it became too much and I decided that writing
words on a computer screen was not going to make a difference in anyone’s life
. . . especially my own.
I made a vow with myself to never visit those memories again
and my computer remained closed.
Sitting across from Keith Morrison with cameras and bright
lights in my face . . . is where I broke that vow. We talked for hours. Every
emotion—I had been working so diligently to hide—came streaming out with every
story I told. He asked me questions about that
night, about my family, about the trial, but the ones I remember most were
the questions he asked about my pain. I had held it in so long, and so
robotically during the trial, it almost hurt coming out—but nothing had ever
felt so good.
My throat burned every time a question was asked. For the
first time since that night, I felt like I truly had a voice—and someone cared
how it felt . . . for me. I could not stop the tears from flowing. No rules
were put on how I could feel; no one was watching to use my insecurities
against me. I was free to speak.
I remember looking across the room to a man I had seen many
times on TV and thinking . . . What am I
doing here? After all those promises to keep these stories quiet? After all
those nights of collaborating with myself . . . truly believing that my healing
would come as everyone just forgot about our struggle? Why . . . why am I doing
this?
But I just kept talking—and it actually felt good.
Even the tears didn’t hurt as much as they too were excited
to fall out. It didn’t make sense in my
mind, but my heart felt free.
I thought that would be the one and only time, but it turned
out my healing through sharing our story . . . had just begun.
On Jan 6, 2014 I woke up with a perfect knowledge of what I
was supposed to do. I had spent the weekend wrestling this overwhelming feeling
that I was to start a blog and truly document the past for my children.
On Friday the confirmation first came to me in the temple.
The feeling that kept repeating in my head was: I need you to be a voice for some of my children who aren’t listening.
I first thought that meant I needed to begin writing in the book I had started
during the trial. Then the thought repeated with more urgency, and as clear as
day the idea of the blog was imprinted in my mind.
I didn’t say a word to Shawn about it. Saturday I was an
emotional wreck battling my prompting. I was moody and angry, and kept avoiding
everyone. Sunday was no different. By Sunday night Shawn finally pulled me into
our room and said, “Ash . . . what is going on with you? You have not been
yourself this whole weekend. Pretty much since the temple on Friday you have
seemed so angry. Are you upset about something? How can I help you through
whatever you are going through? Do you need to go for a drive? Do you want to
take a hot bath? Can I give you a blessing?” His questions wanted answered, but
I didn’t dare tell him of the journey I felt I should do.
We put the kids to bed and walked back into our room so
Shawn could give me a blessing. In the quiet of our house Shawn laid his hands
upon my head and spoke my name. An amazing spirit filled our room. In the
middle of the blessing he stopped. The pause was longer than normal and I could
tell he was trying hard to say the things he felt Heavenly Father wanted me to
hear. As he spoke he repeated almost word for word what I had felt in the
temple a few nights before. He said, “Ashlee . . . Heavenly Father has a plan
for you. He wants you to be a voice for some of His children who aren’t
listening. He wants you to find peace from this pain. He wants you to
find the hope you have been fighting silently for. He wants you to be free from
the past, but to embrace the story. Heavenly Father needs you . . . He needs
you to stand up and share His message through your healing. There is no need to
fear—He will guide you. Just have faith and follow Him and you
will be blessed with the healing you seek. Ashlee, this was always the plan.
You are where you were made to be. You will be blessed in your faith. As you
stand tall, you will feel whole. And I leave these things with you, in the name
of Jesus Christ Amen.”
Shawn’s hands were still on my head. We both sat there in
the silence. He finally spoke, “Hey . .
. Ash . . . Do you have any idea what all of that is about?” I replied through
my tears, “Actually, yes. I am afraid I know exactly what I am supposed to do.”
Shawn took his hands off of my head and walked around until we were face to
face. He said, “Well, if I were you . . . I would do it . . . like now.”
In my final effort to fight for my desired silence I shared
with him the last of my fears, “Shawn . . . I can’t . . . I . . . I don’t want
to do it. I told you the day I met you I couldn’t wait to just have all of this
behind us and not talk about it ever again . . . and now I feel like I am
supposed to just start writing—on a blog—that just anyone could get on and
read. I don’t know if I am ready to do this . . . I don’t want to do what I
feel like I am supposed to do. It is . . . going to be so hard and humiliating
all over again. And . . . I . . . don’t know how to be vulnerable, and write
about something that hurt so bad. I don’t even know how to talk about it
without crying, how would I even start?”
He grabbed my hands and brought his eyes closer to mine. He
whispered, “Ashlee. I understand you feel scared. I have watched it all over
your face this entire weekend, but what if it is part of your healing journey?
What if it helps someone else? I wish I could say there was an easy way out,
but I don’t think you have a choice. You can spend the rest of your life angry
and bitter like you have been this whole weekend—fighting another plan—or you
can just do what you know you have to do. Either way I will support you, but
you have to decide what is more important. Maybe it won’t be easy, but maybe it
really will be what makes you feel whole.”
I went to bed, still filled with turmoil on what I knew I
should do and what I wanted to do. I
hardly slept at all that night. My mind was filled with doubt. Doubt in another
part of the “plan” I never planned. Doubt in the promise that delving into the
past would help me let it go. Doubt that bringing to surface my greatest pain
could bring me peace. Doubt in my ability to spell, punctuate, and communicate
properly in any form of the English language. Doubt that I would be able to
remember anything worth passing down to my posterity. But even more than all of
my fears, doubt that I would fail what seemed to be a mission from my creator.
When morning finally came I rolled out of bed and fell to my
knees. I prayed with all my heart, “I believe in grace. I believe that we each
came to earth with a mission and a purpose. I have seen your hand in every day
I have lived. I have literally seen angels on earth. So, I believe in hope. I
believe in miracles. And if this is the plan you have for me, as scary as it
may seem . . . I will do it. Not for me—heaven knows I don’t want to—not
necessarily for anyone who happens to stumble across this blog I am about to
make . . .but for You. Heavenly Father, I have a family who one day will need
to read these words. They are too young to understand now, but someday they
will be so thankful for this. So I do this for them. I will not fear. I will
pray every time I write that the words will be the voice you need them to be.
Heavenly Father, I am still filled with so much anger and hate . . . I don’t
know what else to write about. So if this is supposed to be—help me remember
the good. Help me remember the angels. Help me remember the times when I had
something to learn, and something to change. Help me to forgive, and repent,
and let this be a journal that is real. Help my children someday to be able to
use it through their own struggles. I see that this has to be. Help me to overcome
this fear. I will be a humble servant in writing truths . . . please help me to
learn them as I write. It’s a scary place we live in. So much of the past has
caused me to doubt the future. This earth has so much evil, so much wrong every
day . . . help me to see the good. I know I can’t change the world . . . but
Father, please help me change myself.”
And a blog was born. It needed a name. My first thoughts all
had to do with the pain and the hard times. Then I reflected on my prayer. I was
going to remember the good—the times we had every reason to fall, but we didn’t
. . . the times we wanted to give up—but carried on. The times we were carried
by a power greater than our own. The
Moments We Stand.
I typed it in and goose bumps covered my arms. It was
perfect. I wasn’t sure where I would begin so I just started typing.
In life, we are all constantly at crossroads. Some
of these crossroads are life-changing, and others don’t seem to make a
difference either way. These moments come to us sometimes many times a day.
Which way to choose . . . what choice to make. Do I take back this lipstick
that had dropped behind my purse at the store and now I’m loading all my
groceries in the car and I am in a hurry and need to leave? Do I wait at the
cross walk with the little boy who looks lost . . . even though I’m already
running late to take my daughter to her piano lesson? It is a moment for a
young high school girl when she has to decide if she will walk past the young
boy who just got his binder torn out of his hands and his stuff thrown about
the hallway . . . or if she will stop and help him pick it up and be late for
her next class. It is the moment when a young man sits in a dressing room
contemplating walking out of the store with the T-shirt he just put on under
his clothes . . . or if he takes it off and saves his money to buy it when he
can afford it. A young pregnant mother sits at a crossroad at the abortion
clinic. . . contemplating whether or not she keeps this unborn child or walks out
of there today as if nothing ever happened. Crossroads are always in our lives.
They are sometimes small . . . and other times very large and heavy. They come
to young and old, poor and rich, happy and depressed. We cannot always control
when or how they come. The only part we have control over, is the outcome. The
outcome of any crossroad can be very dark . . . or it can bring so much joy for
generations to come. We will not always know the ripple effect that our
decisions can have on others around us, but sometimes, our decisions will
change another person’s life forever.
My name is Ashlee. I am a victim of murder. Through
a series of events and by two shots of a gun, I was made a widow at the age of
28, with my youngest child just six weeks old. I am a victim of infidelity. I
have felt unlovable. I have felt rejected. I have had days in my life when I
wasn’t sure if I would ever take a breath again, let alone be able to raise my
five children by myself. I have lived in fear. I have felt much heartache. I
have felt truly broken to my core. I have carried some heavy burdens . . . not
only of my own, but burdens put upon my shoulders by the death of my husband. I
have felt alone. I have felt humiliated. I have been humbled to my knees. I
have searched my soul to find my worth in this world, and in the life that was
left for me. My world has been totally shattered. I have faced realities I
never knew were possible, and found strength within myself to keep up the fight
and live every day as if it was on purpose. I have been carried by Angels . . .
both earthly beings and those unseen. I have found that being a “victim”
doesn’t mean we have an excuse to stop living. Being a victim means finding a
reason for seeking a higher road. I have picked up the pieces left and carried
on. I am a mother. I am a survivor.
In one way or another, we are all victims. There
are times in our lives when we are forced to question who we are at our core.
When we are presented with a path . . . we can go this way or we
can choose that way. For some, this moment comes when
the one person whom we love the most decides we are not enough. This
person leaves us—at a most vulnerable moment—alone to search within
ourselves for who we really are. We are left trying to find who it is that was
left behind. Sometimes the person we
love dies. Sometimes it is merely an internal battle we are facing . . . all
alone inside our minds. Whatever the situation and wherever you have been . . .
you have been hurt. You have felt alone. You have been abandoned, either by
your parents, your lover, your friends, complete strangers, or even yourself.
We have all been at that crossroad where all we have left is ourselves.
Sometimes these moments of lows have brought you to
your knees and caused you to reflect and ponder your relationship with God . .
. and other times they have made you question if He is even there, or if He
knows you are alone. Whatever that moment has been for you, it is personal and
real. It has defined and refined who you are, who you think you were, and who
you want to become.
This is my story . . . the defining moments that
have truly brought me to my knees, the times when I’ve questioned to my core my
very existence, and the experiences I’ve had that have shown me who I really am
and who my Heavenly Father still needs me to become. The night of my husband’s
death was my darkest hour, but also the very moment when I saw firsthand that
my Heavenly Father sent Angels on errands for me. He carried me. It was the
hour when all my fears and all the pain of this world collided together and He
was there . . . putting back together all the pieces, one step at a time.
I clicked publish. I felt this rush of love
surround me. There was a calm and peace I had never in my life felt before.
The first time a stranger posted a comment on the blog I
panicked. It took me a few hours to talk myself out of shutting the whole thing
down. I had promised faith—so I carried on.
I was getting emails from strangers reaching out to share
their own stories. People were stopping me in public with tears in their eyes
telling me how much my words had touched them. News stations were calling and asking for
interviews for me to share my story.
I had a hard time even reading the comments, not just the
mean things people said—also the kind words. I felt inadequate to be the
receiver of praise for something I had almost refused to do, but for the first
time in a long time—I knew I was right where I belonged. I felt a connection to
a plan that was created long before me.
I watched so many miracles take place around me in those
first few months. Hearts were softened; bad decisions made right. I met a lot
of new friends—all with a story of their own.
After years of spending hours and hours with therapist, and
living in fear of being who I was . . . another miracle happened. I started
finding me.
The nights I would pour my heart out at my computer—with
tears falling onto the keys—I wrote our story. And in it—I wasn’t just the
victim without a voice, or the naive wife who was blindsided on a cold March
night—I was standing. I wasn’t the
worthless soul I had come to believe was my destiny. I wasn’t broken—I was
learning how to mend. I didn’t just look back and remember all the things I had
done wrong or was wronged by another—I was blessed to see it all. The words
that fell from my fingertips were stories of hope and love and becoming. The
memories were of the miracles and the gifts through the storm. All of the
sudden the bad didn’t hurt as much as the blessings felt good. The pain wasn’t
as lonely as I remembered the tender mercies.
The darkness didn’t feel so heavy as I pictured us being pulled out by
the light.
The purpose of the pain showed me where I belonged. I wasn’t
alone in the dark of the night typing on a tiny screen—and the perfect view I
now saw of my life showed me I had never been.
Every time I went to type about hate—I remembered the
blessings instead. The darkness that had overpowered my view would lift so I
could see. I had a purpose—and a mission to change what I had become.
Our missions are all unique. I wish I could just tell
everyone—struggling to find out who they are—to write. I wish that finding our
purpose was something someone else could do for us—but it is not. When we truly
find where we are supposed to be, it is when we block out all the sound around
us. We listen to the still small voice inside—beckoning us to remember the
plan. Sometimes on our knees in our
closet, other times alone in our car . . . without the noise. There are voices
everywhere— telling us who we should be—people and things, promises of
healing, price tags of happiness . . . endless noise that in the end will only
leave us feeling inadequate and defeated by opinions and images of others who seem
to have it all figured out.
So we can keep asking our friends on Facebook who we are
supposed to be and what will make us fill the voids that hold us back inside—or
we can step back and reach up. To feel whole we will not need the help of
anyone else but God and the grace of Jesus Christ. He will send messengers to
help us remember truths, but our connection to Him can help us remember His
plan for us.
Our plans will be filled with shadows and valleys, but we
can’t forget that even the darkest of nights turn to day—sometimes we just have
to be patient while we wait for the timing of the sun.
You will find brighter days.
We were all sent here with a purpose. If it has been, it was
always meant to. Our mission is to find where God needs us to be . . . not to
change the world—but ourselves.
Jan 6th, 2014 first post on the blog:
Stand Tall: You are Not Alone
See parts of my interview on Dateline NBC:
Dateline episode
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