Nevertheless, I Know in Whom I Trust

Several years ago, during one of the most difficult times in my life, I was trapped on a tour bus bound for Branson, Missouri. It was at a time when I felt very much alone: many of my friends had turned on me, I had broken up with the guy I had convinced myself I wanted to marry, and my faith was in the negatives. At that point, being stuck on a bus for thirty-four hours seemed like pure Purgatory. I was very blessed, though, to have one of my (few) remaining friends on the bus with me, a brilliant girl named Tami. She was the sort of steady, sweet person who saw goodness in me even when I was waspish and cold; and, she was able to act as a balm to my blistered soul. While we were trapped on the bus I told her about an idea I had been nagged with: to turn a passage of scripture into a song. She thought it was a brilliant idea. The only problem? My sense of rhythm was rather lacking. I could not do sonnets, I could not dance very well, and I most certainly did not feel I could write a song. Tami, though, told me that I might as well try. During that bus ride she acted as my support, my confidant, my assistant, and my editor; by the end I had finished the first draft of my song.

While we were stuck in those tiny, cramped seats I had one of the most amazing experiences. For the first time in three years I felt truly whole again, and I felt as though my heart were at peace. I had thought myself past feeling, and suddenly I was awash in emotions. At three in the morning, long after Tami had fallen asleep on my lap, I tipped my head back and stared up at the ceiling. Silence reigned over the bus: sleep had taken everyone but the bus driver and me. In that safe cocoon, I let myself think about the two people I had been writing my song for: my dad and my grandfather. They were the foundation on which I had built so much of myself on, and they were the rock I could fall back on when I gave up on myself. But I had been betraying that relationship of faith and trust. I had spurned their help, discarded their love, and turned my back on everything I believed.

Something I almost never talk about is that, at that time, I believed in nothing. I had convinced myself that God would not let me suffer if He really loved me, and so His existence had to be a lie. I had also convinced myself that my church was false, since it believed in the God I had turned from. I hated myself, hated going home, hated people who had once been my friends, hated my school, hated where I lived, and just hated with every ounce of passion I had in me. I was emotionally and spiritually dying.

My grandfather, who I look up to so much, faced a similar fall when he was younger. He had left the church, joined the army, began to drink and smoke, and turned his back on God. Eventually, he gave up smoking and drinking, and he eventually returned to the church. I was never brave enough to talk to him about that dark time in his life, but oh how I wanted to. I wanted to ask him what had made him come back, and I wanted to know if he truly believed in the church. But I never got the chance.

On the bus that night, I uttered my first prayer in over a year. I asked God to protect us while we traveled--our bus had been the victim of winds so strong we were constantly being blown in a zig-zag across the road--and I asked Him to help me understand why my life sucked. The wind did not stop and I did not receive a heavenly vision outlining how each moment of agony fit into the larger picture. But, I did feel peace and contentment. I even fell asleep, something I had been certain would not happen in such uncomfortable conditions. It is probably, on some level, ironic that I wrote something so spiritual during a time of disbelief. I, however, do not think it was. My soul, which had been starved for so long, found a way to express all of its anguish and hope for things my mind had dismissed.

The song I wrote was an adaptation of what is known as Nephi's Psalm, which is found in 2 Nephi 4. And yes, that is in the Book of Mormon. The original scripture expressed the feelings of a man who felt inadequate and weak, but still knew to trust in the Lord. Those feelings resonated with me on a deep level, even when I professed to not believe in God. My adaptation was meant to reflect the faith of my father and grandfather, and I wanted it to honor them. This was the result:

Behold, my soul delighteth in the Lord,
And ponders things which I have seen and heard;
And yet my heart cries, "Wretched man I am,
Encompassed 'round by temptation and sin."
Nevertheless, I know in whom I trust:
My Lord, My God, My Savior, and My Friend.

Behold, my God hath been my great support,
Hath guided me through affliction and pain.
He hath preserved me, filled me with his love
For He hath heard even my smallest cry.
By day, by night, in Him I have waxed strong
Through His great love my troubles cast aside.

Awake my soul! No longer droop in sin!
Rejoice my heart, and give it place no more!
Let me, O Lord, praise Thee forevermore
Delight in Thee, Redeemer of my soul
Encircle me within Thy loving arms,
For I have trusted Thee until the end.

It is not the most inventive adaptation of Nephi's Psalm in the world, but it was mine. In many ways, the second stanza was my father and the third was my grandfather. Little did I know that the first stanza would eventually come to represent me.

My problems were not solved in one night, or even a month. I fell into something of an uneasy truce with God: I admitted He was there, but I refused to love Him. I still blamed him for all of the difficulties in my life, and I did not believe He would want me even if I did turn to him. Bitterness kept its hold on me for so long...so much wasted time. That year I graduated from high school, and I went to study for my undergraduate degree. That first year was dreadful. I fell into bad habits, I toed the line with misbehaving, and I was a very negative influence on the people around me. And then March happened.

One night I felt particularly restless while eating dinner in the cafeteria. I was withdrawn, edgy, and felt somewhat worried for no reason. Excusing myself early, I went and walked towards the dormitories. Something about the sunset made me stop: I spent a good ten or twenty minutes just staring at it and thinking about my life. And then my phone rang. My father was on the other end of the line, and he had painful news to pass on. Grandpa was dead. His health had been on a decline for months, we all knew it was coming, but to have lost him... I was devastated. I stood there and cried. During high school I had prided myself on the fact that nothing could make me cry, and there I was sobbing like a child. But it wasn't because I had lost my grandfather. Instead, it was because I would miss him. I would not get to tell him about what I was studying, I wouldn't get to hear him say "and that" randomly in his sentences, and I wouldn't ever get to introduce him to whatever poor soul I ended up marrying. Some portion of my testimony had survived even the cruelest of attacks and my most fervent attempts to peel away my beliefs. I knew, without a doubt, that I would see my grandfather again. I knew that we would be a family again. The only thing that truly lacked to make that happen was that I was inadequate.

I prayed like I had never prayed before that night. My knees became locked up and stiff, my body was cold, and my eyes were swollen when I finally rose to my feet. That night I did not receive a heavenly vision assuring me of God's forgiveness, nor did my heart immediately change. I was still vice-ridden and suffering, but I had at last admitted that I could not make it through life alone. I knew that I needed God, and that I needed help. For two-and-a-half years I struggled to find my way back to God. Guilt, self-hated, and low self-esteem dominated that time in my life because I still did not believe that God would want to forgive me. Finally, when I felt as if my soul was going to be ripped to shreds, I went to my bishop. I told him everything: my mistakes, how I felt, and what I wanted to be. He paused for a long moment before saying to me, "The only person who has not forgiven you, Kirstin, is you." I was flabbergasted. I was an awful person. How could anyone have forgiven me? He then reminded me that I had done the work of praying and agonizing over what I had done, even though no one had called me out on it, and that God loved me. God wants to forgive, and God wants to love. I just had to let it happen.

Miraculous changes started to happen in my life. I made progress in my vices, I was able to forgive someone who had dealt me a great hurt, and I started to trust other people. The progress was slow in coming, but it was distinct. By the time I graduated with my undergraduate degree I was an entirely different person. Now, in my first year as a graduate student, I feel it is important to express the journey I have made. This week my faith has (yet again) come under attack. Myriads of people are trying to tell me what I believe, who I am, and what I am not. They say I am a cultist, that I'm not Christian, that I believe in polygamy, that I should accept things that go against my beliefs. Who are they to condemn me? Who are they to tell me what I can and cannot know? They are no one.

Only God may condemn me and those of my faith. Only I determine what I believe, what I know, and what I do not believe in. No amount of hated, derision, or persuasion will turn me from the path I have chosen. My suffering, difficult though it may have been, has made me stronger, and the bigger picture I had asked for all those years ago is starting to reveal itself. Prayers are answered. God lives. God loves. Latterday Saints are Christians. I know these things to be true.

My name is Kirstin, and I am a Latterday Saint. I know in whom I trust.