Line Upon Line: Seeing God’s Work Through a 3D Printer

There’s a phrase in scripture that Latter-day Saints hear often: “line upon line, precept upon precept.” We usually think of that phrase as describing how we learn the gospel. Knowledge and understanding come slowly, layer by layer. But recently, while watching a 3D printer quietly building something on my workbench, I started wondering if the metaphor might run deeper than that. Maybe it doesn’t just describe how we learn. Maybe it also describes how God builds us.

Anyone who has spent time around a 3D printer knows the strange fascination of watching it work. At first nothing looks impressive. A nozzle moves back and forth across a build plate, laying down thin lines of molten plastic. It doesn’t look like much. Just lines. Then another layer appears. And another. Eventually the shape begins to emerge, and suddenly what looked random starts to look intentional.

That process reminds me of Isaiah 28:10: “For precept must be upon precept, precept upon precept; line upon line, line upon line.” God rarely changes us all at once. Instead He builds patiently, layer by layer.

As someone who spends a lot of time with 3D printers, I know how complicated that process actually is. For a print to succeed, the temperature has to be right. The flow rate has to be correct. The build plate has to be leveled. The speed of the nozzle must match the material. The machine moves along three axes—X, Y, and Z—coordinating thousands of tiny movements. All of those movements are written into lines of machine code that tell the motors exactly when to move and where.

To someone watching from across the room, it might look simple. But the maker knows the enormous complexity behind every layer.

In many ways, that’s what life feels like. We experience only the small area right around us. We can’t see the entire blueprint of what God is building. Isaiah reminds us why: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord” (Isaiah 55:8–9). The Maker sees the full design. We see only the layer we are living in.

Another thing anyone who prints complex models understands is the need for supports. Some parts of a model can’t just be printed into empty air. They need temporary structures that hold them in place while the real object forms.

Those supports aren’t the final product. In fact, they’re often removed when the print is finished. But without them, the object would collapse.

I’ve come to believe that many moments in our lives are like that. Sometimes we are the structure being built. Other times we are the support holding something steady for someone else.

King Benjamin taught: “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17). We may not always understand the role we are playing in the moment. But sometimes our ministry is simply being present while someone else’s life is taking shape.

I’ve seen that principle in my own life in unexpected ways. As a father and now a grandfather, many of the most meaningful moments have come in quiet acts of support—helping a child learn something, sharing a skill, or simply being there when someone needs encouragement.

I’ve also experienced that lesson through running. When I first started training seriously again, progress came slowly. Each run felt like just another small effort. But week after week those small efforts built on each other until I realized I could do things I hadn’t thought possible before.

The same has been true in creative work. Writing, music, building, even 3D printing—none of it happens all at once. Every meaningful project is built layer upon layer.

Elder John C. Pingree Jr. taught that the Lord tells each of us: “I have a work for thee.” That work doesn’t always look dramatic. Often it looks like small acts of service, quiet encouragement, or using the skills and experiences we already have to bless someone else.

Doctrine and Covenants 58:27 teaches us to be “anxiously engaged in a good cause.” We may not know the full blueprint of God’s design, but we can participate in the layer we are currently living.

The perfect example of fulfilling divine work is Jesus Christ. Near the end of His mortal life, the Savior prayed: “I have glorified thee on the earth: I have finished the work which thou gavest me to do” (John 17:4).

Our missions are not the same as His, but the pattern is similar. We learn. We grow. We serve. Layer by layer we become something new.

In 3D printing, the object and the process are inseparable. The final form only exists because thousands of small lines were placed carefully over time.

Discipleship works the same way. Faith grows line upon line. Character develops line upon line. Christlike love is learned line upon line.

And although we cannot yet see the finished design, we can trust the Master Maker who does.

One day we may finally see the design from above and understand why certain layers were placed where they were. Until then, our responsibility is simple: keep building, keep learning, keep serving—and trust the Builder.

When Concern Gets Dismissed

When Concern Gets Dismissed

Last September I tried to have a conversation with Tina’s siblings about two things that felt increasingly urgent:

Her mother’s memory loss.

Her father’s ability to be a safe, appropriate caregiver.

This wasn’t about blame. It wasn’t about finances. It wasn’t about control. It was about safety, decline, and the reality that two aging people might need more support than they were getting.

The response that has stayed with me the most came from Tina’s second oldest brother, the one often treated as the “golden child.”

At first, he acknowledged something real.

He said he understood the toll Tina’s father’s behavior had taken on those who married into the family.

That sounded empathetic.

But the more I replay it, the more it feels like what he was really saying was that we were weak. Including his own wife. As if the problem wasn’t the behavior itself, but our inability to tolerate it.

Then he shifted into explaining his father’s behavior away.

“It’s just his low self-esteem.”

Maybe that’s true. But acknowledging dysfunction isn’t an argument for leaving someone in a caregiving role. It’s an argument for the opposite.

Then he pivoted to finances, as if money were the core issue. He assured everyone that he and the oldest brother had the estate under control.

Finances were never the concern.

Safety was.

Function was.

Capacity was.

Then he minimized Tina’s mother’s condition by suggesting she just needed to “get out more.”

I still don’t know what he meant that would fix.

Did he think activity would reverse memory decline?

Did he think time away from her husband would solve something?

Did he think this was temporary confusion instead of progression?

Either way, the logistics alone make the suggestion unrealistic.

Getting someone out daily for enough time to matter would require multiple hours every day.

The oldest brother is already carrying significant responsibility. Their parents literally live in an adjoining apartment to his home. Adding more to his plate isn’t reasonable.

His wife had already tried to get Tina’s mother out socially with little success. And even if activity helps mood, it does not stop neurodegenerative decline. We have direct family evidence of that.

Then came the part that still burns.

He suggested that “those who live close” should take responsibility for getting their mother out regularly.

That statement collapses under even basic reality.

The youngest sister lives nearby but is in a volatile marriage. Her husband has made threats against the oldest brother and his family. There is a restraining order involved. Relying on her creates risk for everyone.

The next closest sibling after the oldest brother was Tina’s sister who had just died after four years of pancreatic cancer. She wasn’t even included in the group chat for obvious reasons. Said sibling lives over an hour away. That would mean more than two hours of driving daily, plus time spent out with their mother. Four hours a day, minimum, just to attempt this “solution.”

Which leaves us.

My family.

And if he meant Tina specifically, then the math becomes almost cruel.

Tina works six 12-hour shifts most weeks. Sometimes five 12s and an 8. A 12-hour shift is really 12.5 because of report time. She has a one-hour commute each way.

If she stopped after work to spend time with her mother:

1 hour from work to parents.

1.5 hours out with her mother.

Nearly 2 hours home with traffic.

That leaves roughly 5 hours at home before she has to sleep, eat, shower, prepare for work again, and function as a human being.

At best, she would get 3 to 3.5 hours of sleep.

That isn’t caregiving. That’s collapse.

The only alternatives would be Tina moving in with her parents, which neither of us will agree to, or her body forcing the issue through exhaustion within weeks.

What makes this harder is that this brother knows the damage his father’s behavior can cause. He deliberately chose jobs that kept distance between his own family and his parents to protect his wife’s mental health.

That was wise.

That was protective.

That was love.

But somehow he didn’t extend that same protection to his sister.

Then came the statement that hurt the most:

“If we just loved Dad more, things would be okay.”

I do love him.

That’s why I’m concerned.

Love does not mean ignoring neglect.

Love does not mean pretending laundry, cleaning, and daily function are happening when they aren’t.

Love does not mean accepting yelling at a cognitively declining spouse as normal frustration.

Love does not mean leaving someone in a role they can’t safely perform.

After that conversation, I blocked most of the family again on my phone and social media.

That wasn’t impulsive. It wasn’t dramatic. It was survival.

Years ago I had already learned that distance was necessary for my own mental health. I reopened those doors for one reason only: concern. I was willing to risk my stability to try to start a real conversation about what was happening to Tina’s parents.

I reversed boundaries that existed for a reason.

And one response shut the entire thing down.

One response.

The moment the “golden child” spoke, everyone else went quiet. No questions. No problem-solving. No curiosity. Just a return to the familiar family posture: status quo, head in the sand, don’t upset Dad, don’t acknowledge decline, don’t confront reality.

Conversation over.

That silence told me everything.

It told me that protecting comfort mattered more than protecting people.

It told me that denial was still the organizing principle.

It told me that the emotional hierarchy hadn’t changed.

So I closed the doors again.

Because I am not required to sacrifice my mental health on the altar of someone else’s denial.

I am not required to expose myself to harm to prove I care.

I am not required to participate in a system that punishes honesty and rewards avoidance.

And the truth is, my distance was never indifference.

For years, while staying out of the blast radius for my own survival, I still tried to contribute quietly.

I digitized Tina’s childhood photos and made them available to the family through her Google Drive without anyone knowing it was me.

I digitized videos of her maternal grandmother. One was created by her church community when her health declined and Tina’s parents brought her to Utah for better care. Another was of her grandmother talking about her trip overseas when she was young and single.

That grandmother was active. Social. Engaged outside the home.

She still declined.

I worried those memories would be lost if someone didn’t preserve them.

Tina’s mother had given us a VHS copy years ago. I assumed everyone had one. They didn’t. No one even remembered the videos existed until they appeared digitally. Not even Tina’s mother.

I never said I did it.

Because I knew how it would go.

Because Tina’s father has criticized nearly everything I’ve done since the day I married his daughter.

So I stayed invisible.

I contributed without credit.

I helped without acknowledgment.

I loved from a distance because that was the only safe way to do it.

Which is why it hurt so much to be treated as if I didn’t understand, didn’t care, or needed to “love more.”

I have loved.

I have shown up in the only ways I safely could.

I took a risk that day. A real one. I stepped back into dynamics that have hurt me before because I believed concern for vulnerable people might finally matter enough to override the old patterns.

It didn’t.

And that realization hurt more than I expected.

It felt like I risked my mind for nothing.

But the truth is, it wasn’t nothing.

I spoke.

I named what I saw.

I advocated for people who may not be able to advocate for themselves.

The outcome was not what I hoped for, but the action still matters.

Sometimes the only thing you control in a broken system is whether you participate in the denial.

I chose not to.

And I will not apologize for protecting my own mental health when the system refuses to protect anyone else.

Denial is comfortable.

Reality is coming anyway.

Children and their wide eyed optimism that allows them to suspend reality and how we lose it. An open letter to Fandoms.

 Fandoms have played a huge role in my life, shaping the way I view storytelling, heroism, and the human experience. Of all the fandoms I love, Star Wars is at the very top of the list. George Lucas created those original movies with children in mind, but he crafted them in a way that adults could also enjoy and learn from. He used the hero’s journey, a storytelling structure that has appeared throughout human history, borrowing influences from Japanese cinema, classic science fiction, fantasy, and even Greek epics. The story of Luke Skywalker follows this age-old path: the student discovering himself, finding a mentor, losing that mentor, and ultimately facing the ultimate test.

But Star Wars also explores the idea that heroes fall. Anakin Skywalker was once a hero before he became Darth Vader. The prequels expanded on this idea, showing how his fall was driven by fear, loss, and manipulation. Even Obi-Wan Kenobi experiences a form of downfall—not to evil, but to despair. By the time we see him in A New Hope, he has shut himself off from the world. Not just to protect Luke, but because of the overwhelming grief of losing Anakin, his brother in arms. The pain he feels is reminiscent of other legendary betrayals, like King Arthur and Lancelot.

This theme of flawed heroes extends beyond Star Wars. Comic books, particularly Marvel comics, are filled with characters who struggle with their own shortcomings. Even Superman, the quintessential Boy Scout, has faced moral dilemmas, has fallen, and even died before being brought back. Marvel’s heroes, in particular, feel more like real people—individuals who happen to have extraordinary abilities but still deal with personal battles. Their masks and costumes serve a purpose beyond theatrics; they separate their personal lives from their responsibilities, much like real-world heroes do. Police officers, firefighters, and military personnel all wear uniforms that symbolize their duty, yet they also have personal lives they must protect and balance.

Another fandom I hold dear is Star Trek. My favorite iteration is Deep Space Nine, and nobody can beat Avery Brooks as Captain Sisko. He brought an incredible passion to the role, and the show tackled issues of social justice, discrimination, and the cost of maintaining a utopian society. Star Trek, in all its iterations, has always pushed boundaries, presenting a future where humanity has moved beyond its worst tendencies—but not without struggle. Even in a utopian world, there are forces that threaten to tear it down, whether from within or from the outside. It’s a reminder that achieving a just society isn’t the end of the fight—you have to work to maintain it.

Fantasy is another love of mine, and few stories embody the hero’s journey better than The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien, first and foremost a linguist, created his world as an experiment in how language evolves with culture. But in doing so, he also crafted an epic that reflects the darkness of the world. His experiences in the trenches of World War I shaped the way he portrayed war—not just as a battlefield struggle, but as a weight that crushes entire civilizations. Though he was adamant that his work was not allegorical, the themes of war, loss, and perseverance are woven into every part of his stories.

His friend, C.S. Lewis, took a different approach with The Chronicles of Narnia. Lewis embraced allegory, weaving Christian themes throughout his works. When asked why his children’s books contained dark and terrifying elements, he explained that children need to know that there are monsters in the world—but more importantly, that those monsters can be defeated. Stories like these don’t just entertain; they help us process the real fears we face in life and give us hope that good can prevail.

Of course, fandoms aren’t without their conflicts. Star Wars, in particular, has seen intense division among fans. Every time a new trilogy is released, there’s an uproar. Some fans want the experience to feel exactly like the original trilogy did when they were kids, but that sense of innocence can never truly be recaptured. The prequels, for example, were criticized for focusing too much on CGI and effects, losing some of the raw storytelling that made the originals so compelling. When Disney took over, the sequels were met with backlash for different reasons. The Force Awakens was called too derivative, even though it was meant as an homage. And then The Last Jedi caused an even bigger rift, with its portrayal of Luke Skywalker as a broken man who had lost faith in the Jedi.

To me, that was one of the most realistic and moving aspects of the new trilogy. Heroes fall—not always to darkness, but sometimes to despair. Luke’s disillusionment wasn’t a betrayal of his character; it was a reflection of what happens when people carry the weight of the world for too long. His journey back to hope was just as important as his original rise to heroism. I relate to this personally, as I have struggled with depression, anxiety, and ADHD. There have been times when I’ve withdrawn completely, overwhelmed by the burdens of responsibility and self-doubt. But even in those moments of isolation, there’s always been something that has pulled me back—whether it’s my family, my love of storytelling, or the realization that even a small step forward is still progress.

Going back to school as a 40-year-old was one of those moments for me. I didn’t just do it for a degree; I did it to show my kids how to succeed, even when it’s hard. It wasn’t without pain or deep anxiety-fueled depression, but I endured because I wanted them to see that perseverance matters. And just like the heroes in these stories, I’ve learned that coming back, even for a moment, can make all the difference—not just for myself, but for those watching and looking for their own hope.

Fandoms are passionate spaces, and sometimes that passion leads to division. But at their core, these stories exist to inspire us, to challenge us, and to give us a glimpse of something greater than ourselves. Whether it’s a farm boy from Tatooine, a Vulcan exploring the stars, or a hobbit carrying a burden too great for anyone to bear, these characters remind us of our own journeys. And as long as stories continue to be told, as long as light still shines, there will always be hope.

Firebreaks

It's starting to make sense. 

"Where there's smoke there's fire." 

Every day is a battle to feed and grow the forest of my life and friends.  Remove the excess dead standing and fallen trees.  Keep the accessible paths open and discourage people from tramping on the parts of me that need to remain wild and pristine. 

I'm a forest ranger conservationist. 

Then I see it.  Smoke. 

I'm not a good fireman.  I'm a conservationist.  I try to call it in.  But for me, the response time is never good enough.  So I find the nearest tool and try to build a firebreak.  A controlled burn, a Bulldozer, Napalm.  I'm not a fireman.  I just try to keep the fire away from the one thing I can't do without.  My kids.  My wife.  I can give up everything else in this world but I can't let the fire consume that too.  But I'm not a fireman.

Usually, I don't get so much destroyed that I can't rebuild.  But sometimes.  Damn it.  I hate it too.  So there I stand in the wasteland between what I hold dear and what I'm trying to build and trying to find a swathe of green that I somehow missed.  An olive tree that bent but didn't break.  Maybe the creatures will come back.  I can only find what's left and start planting again.  Maybe the new pathway will go here and we'll let the old one overgrow.

Why Doesn’t God Always Heal? Understanding Miracles and Faith

Why Doesn’t God Always Heal? Understanding Miracles and Faith

Life is full of trials—some visible, some hidden deep within our hearts and minds. As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we believe in a God of miracles (Mormon 9:15-19). We read of Christ healing the blind, the lepers, and even raising the dead. We hear modern testimonies of miraculous healings and divine interventions. And yet, many of us pray for miracles that seem to go unanswered.

Why doesn’t God always heal? If He has the power to restore limbs, to cure cancer, to mend broken minds, why do so many still suffer?

A Life Designed for Growth

The simplest answer is this: this life is a test. Mortality is our proving ground, a place where we develop faith, patience, and trust in God’s plan. Elder Neil L. Andersen taught:

> "Faith in Jesus Christ is a gift from heaven that comes as we choose to believe and as we seek it and hold on to it. Your faith will grow not by chance, but by choice." (“Faith Is Not by Chance, but by Choice,” Oct. 2015 General Conference)

Like a carefully cultivated garden, our trials and experiences are meant to grow something specific in us—faith, hope, and charity (Ether 12:27). If God stepped in to fix every hardship, would we truly develop these Christlike attributes?

The Role of Miracles

The scriptures do show that miracles happen, but often they serve a larger purpose in God’s eternal plan. The miracles of Christ were not just acts of compassion but also powerful witnesses of His divinity (John 20:30-31). They restored balance in a world darkened by sin and disbelief. Yet, even in His mortal ministry, Christ did not heal everyone.

Laman and Lemuel saw angels and incredible signs, yet their faith faltered (1 Nephi 3:29-31). Miracles alone do not create lasting conversion. The Prophet Joseph Smith, who experienced firsthand the power of God, also endured great suffering and was ultimately martyred. Even the most faithful are not spared from the refining fire of mortality.

Why Some Are Healed and Others Are Not

It is difficult to understand why some receive miraculous healing and others do not. President Dallin H. Oaks explained:

> "Healing blessings come in many ways, each suited to our individual needs, as known to Him who loves us best." (“Healing the Sick,” Apr. 2010 General Conference)

Sometimes healing is immediate. Sometimes it is gradual. And sometimes, healing does not come in this life but is reserved for the next. That does not mean we are loved less or that our faith is weak. Rather, it means that God, who sees the eternal picture, knows what we need most for our ultimate happiness.

Finding Peace in an Unhealed Life

I have prayed for healing. I have struggled with the weight of trials that seem unmovable. Through personal revelation, I have come to understand that while I may not receive certain miracles now, my brokenness will be made whole in the life to come (Revelation 21:4).

If you are struggling, know this: God loves you. His plan for you is tenderly crafted, designed not just for survival but for exaltation. The trials of this life, though heavy, are but a small moment (D&C 121:7-8). He will strengthen you to endure, and one day, all that is unfair will be made right through Jesus Christ.

This is my testimony. These are my prayers for you—not just in my moments of kneeling, but in the quiet thoughts of my day. May you find peace in His promises.

In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Nobody Knows I'm Not Okay

This is how it feels when you try to explain mental illness to someone who won't/can't really understand. 

Verse 1

Nobody sees the hurt inside.

Because I hide it with a smile.

Nobody knows the pain I feel

I've been feeling for a while

Verse 2

Nobody's tried to fight

The thoughts that come at night.

Nobody knows how to breathe

When you're not alright

Chorus

And it seems like i'm okay

And it seems i'm doing fine

But i'm barely holding everything in

It's tearing up my mind.

Verse 3

Nobody thinks that it's okay

When the pain will paralyze

Nobody knows that the darkness helps

When sun's blazing in the skys

Chorus

And it seems like i'm okay

And it seems i'm doing fine

But i'm barely holding everything in

It's tearing up my mind.

Bridge

It gets hard to move

And your body aches 

And you're standing still

When one's mind it breaks

And you're falling fast

But you're holding on

But nobody sees, your strength to carry on.

Verse 4

Each day live I've won

Each step's a marathon

But nobody cheers me on

Would they notice if I'm gone.

Chorus

And it seems like i'm okay

And it seems i'm doing fine

But i'm barely holding everything in

It's tearing up my mind.

Verse 1 repeat

Nobody sees the hurt inside.

Because I hide it with a smile.

Nobody knows the pain I feel

I've been feeling for a while

Nobody knows...

Anxiety vs Spirituality - doesn't mean I have no testimony.

 I struggle with attending church because of my General Anxiety Disorder coupled with Social Anxiety as well as Major Depressive Disorder.  I have strong faith in God.  I feel his presence but being at church sets off all my warning systems.  Many people downplay what I say with words like, "You can get up on stage and perform for people, how can it be any different being around people?" (Remember stage is scripted, I know everything I'm supposed to do from tons of rehearsal. It's muscle memory)

There are lots of reasons but let's go back to the disorder itself and figure it out. 

The amygdala:

What is the amygdala?

Your amygdala is a small, almond-shaped structure inside of your brain. It’s part of a larger network in your brain called the limbic system. When it comes to your survival, your amygdala and limbic system are extremely important. These are parts of your brain that automatically detect danger. They also play a role in behavior, emotional control and learning.

Fear is the main emotion that the amygdala is known to control. That’s why your amygdala is so important to survival. It processes things you see or hear and uses that input to learn what’s dangerous. If you encounter something similar in the future, your amygdala will cause you to feel fear or similar emotions.

However, research shows that the amygdala contributes to more than just anxiety or fear. It also plays a role in the following:

 

·       Aggression.

 

·       Learning through rewards and punishment.

 

·       Handling and using implicit (unconscious) memory, which allows you to remember how to do certain things without remembering how you learned them (like riding a bike or tying your shoes).

 

·       Social communication and understanding, including how you interpret someone’s intentions from how they talk or act).

 

·       Emotions that relate to parenting and caregiving.

 

·       Emotions we connect to memories.

 

·       Learned behaviors related to addiction.    

 https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/body/24894-amygdala

In the case of someone with my disorder, the amygdala works overtime.  It doesn't shut off properly when other parts of the brain are supposed to take over.  This leads to an almost constant state of "Fight or Flight" syndrome.  So, it's not a tiny worry or a little anxiety.  My brain thinks attacks are imminent at almost any time.  Very few situations allow me to feel truly safe.  My home, for example, feels safe almost all the time.  My dear wife, particularly when I'm alone with her, makes me feel safe.  My children and grandchildren do but to a slightly lesser extent and partly due to my constant worry about how to help them be the amazing people I know they can be.

 

So why then does church make me feel anxious and extremely fearful.  I'm old enough to have been in many different congregations and met many good people.  However, many people at church feel the need to display their righteousness on their chest so to speak.  Church is supposed to be a hospital for the soul, but most people see it

as a place for "good" people to gather.  This leads to a subconscious need for people who don't seem to conform to be judged.  Because church has developed their programs and culture around their beliefs, the culture and programs become a litmus test for perceived righteousness in other.  This changes the feeling from one of welcome and love to one of distrust of anyone different.  This can lead to a feeling of hostility towards someone who looks or acts differently.

It doesn't make the Church itself untrue or not righteous, but it does destroy the welcoming nature of the people with in.

For someone who has a mental illness this is like being immunocompromised and walking into an isolated quarantine zone with no protective gear.  You pick up each little sideways glance, each passive aggressive comment even if they aren't directed at you.  They cut like knives, and you feel the need to run.

It's also a place for small talk.  Small talk is essentially social exercises that people do to show that they want to talk to you but only on a surface level.  It makes the person who engages in it feel like they've tried to be nice.  But it's also mostly insincere. 

"How are you?" Is a common phrase used.  But the person asking it doesn't expect a list of good AND bad things in the answer.  They want to hear.

"Fine! How are you?"

They might talk about the weather, which is easily seen if one looks out the window.  It's useless.  And for most people it's harmless chatting and innocuous.

For someone who is stressed to extremes by every social interaction, it's a type of torture because not only are you fighting the urge to run away at every moment, but this conversation is also totally unnecessary and leading nowhere.

A church leader who I have talked about my mental health to and even sent an email several years ago to, stating that I very much needed to be given space, ignores what I’ve asked and forces me to engage in such conversations.  My dear wife has also told him that HE, personally, makes me anxious but he doesn’t stop.

Before he was called to be a leader in our church, he never spoke to me.  But it seems that he decided that I was a special problem that he was going to fix himself.  My first interview with him he began with methods of guilt and manipulation mostly by telling me how much the congregation needed me there.  Making sure that I knew that I was letting them all down when my fears kept me from attending.  I desperately tried to explain what it was like in my mind to him, but he just kept circling back to how much everyone else needed me there all of the time.  At this point he decided to up the pressure by bringing my wife in and trying to tell me how much I was letting her down.  This was my private interview with my church leader.  He was tearing me down for my brain being broken and my difficulty being able to overcome it.  To finish he began to tell me that if I came more to church and read my scriptures and prayed enough, I would be cured.  This was his real point.  He was saying all along that the only reason I had these problems was a lack of Faith.

Faith is what saved me from unaliving myself in 2013.  Faith is what keeps me from succumbing to those depressive thoughts every day.  I knew who I was but now I knew that this church leader would never consider me worthy.

In the months after I struggled worse than before and actually came to a point where I needed to be given some space so that I could build up the strength to try to make it to church.  I wanted to be there but I needed to feel as invisible as possible to do so.

I composed an email to this leader saying that I needed space.  I CC’d a few other leaders.  It was sent late at night so it wouldn't be seen until morning.

Sure enough, the leader in question showed up on my doorstep unannounced the next day with his counselor.  This was my safe space.  It felt like an invasion, or an ambush.  It was the opposite of what I'd asked.  I hid in my bedroom with the lights off and the covers over my head and my dear wife turned them away.  After that he began to try to create special mini meetings with just him to try to teach me and rebuild the testimony that he believed that I had lost.  He'd do this and then say, "No pressure."  Anytime you say, "No pressure." You're too late.  You already put the pressure on.  So, I went long stretches not able to attend because now I wasn't just afraid of the regular people talking to me.  Now I was afraid of him.  He is trying his best but somehow can't see what he's doing to me.

During a period when I began to develop a tic from one of my medications, I made it to church.  I was sitting by my wife.  He saw me and shot straight over to me.  I politely shook his offered hand.  He tried to build me up by saying how strong I was to be there. Over and over.  Extending the interaction as long as possible.  All the while my leg began to bounce (my tic) harder and harder.  I had to put my hands on it to try to keep it from jumping so high.  My wife added her hand to mine to try to help too.  All I needed was for him to say “Hi” and shake my hand and go but in his mind he needed to have a full conversation right up until the start of the meeting.  I know that from his perspective he NEEDED that so he could feel like he was doing his job.  But it took none of what I'd said to him into account.  It showed no empathy for what I go through every day.

To him and others, I'm not active in church. 

To them, that must be due to a lack of spirituality on my part.  They don't see me getting ready every Saturday evening.  Showering, shaving.  Making sure I have clean dress socks and a clean and ironed shirt.  Sometimes I pull my clothes out and hang them off my dresser to make it easier the next morning.

They don't see me lying there trying so hard to sleep each Saturday night.  Almost never being able to do so because of how fearful I am of being among the people there.   Even the kind ones make me afraid, but this particular ward is also full of many people who have looked down on me for being a stay-at-home father.  Their kids have treated mine terribly since we were put into this ward.  And the kids likely learned this from hearing their parents.  As they've adjusted the boundaries, we've been isolated geographically from anyone who lives near us.  We are at the end of a tiny peninsula of land that ends with us.  Just our side of the street for several blocks.  On the opposite side of the street is another Stake entirely.  Our backyard neighbors are in a different ward. 

My grandfather served on several stake realignment committees and explained that the first thing they try to balance is how many Melchizedek Priesthood holders are in each ward.  Then families and youth etc. are considered.  So, 1.  Me.  They drew a tiny peninsula around my side of the street because they wanted one more Melchizedek Priesthood holder in their ward.  My wife who goes with the flow usually and doesn't complain, she has cried because of how isolated we feel.  She wants to move but because of how long it took us to climb out of the debt we incurred from my failed business, housing prices are simply too high for us to responsibly move.  Plus, we have 8 and a half years left of our mortgage.  I'm 50 and Tina is getting close.  Taking out a new 30-year mortgage would be financially irresponsible.   This is where we're staying.

 

Recently my wife told this leader that HE makes me anxious.  Still, the next time he saw me at my son's play at high school he rushed to talked to me.  I answered his how are you question and tried to walk back to my family, but he pursued me.  More small talk.  One question was so unnecessary.   He asked, "Are you excited to see your son?"

 

What was I going to say?  It's obvious I was because I was braving the crowds just to be there.  If I had replied, "No, I came to watch him fail miserably." He'd have been shocked.

 

He was asking me questions because he needed to feel like he was doing his job as my church leader.  Fulfilling his needs.  I finally managed to break away, but he didn't stop looking over at me.  You could see in his eyes that he was compelled to try again. 

He did.  He walked over to my 2nd son and shook his hand.  My son now attends church at a young single adult ward. After briefly talking to my son, he turned his attention back to me. And forced me to endure several more minutes of circular small talk about the play.

I was in full panic attack mode.  The whole play I clung so hard to my wife's hand.  I was afraid that I might have hurt her I squeezed so hard.  Most of the time I tried to make myself small and put my head on her shoulder.  This made it difficult to see the play.  Luckily, I had done this play before and knew when to look up so that I didn't miss my son's parts in the show.  That's why I was there.  But my night was destroyed.  By a man who had an agenda.  A man who never spoke to me before he made me a special project or goal.  I believe that he may think that he alone is capable of curing me or that somehow his position in our church makes it so he has a special relationship with me that no one else has.  But one thing he doesn't have is empathy or the ability to listen. 

 

Even at this moment I have been up all night writing these things down.  Trying to work through them.  I've shaved and showered, my clothes are ready, but I don't know if I will be able to find the strength to put them on. 

 

I took a sleeping pill, but my anxiety and fear are so strong that it has been completely ineffective.  It's 5 am.  The dread gets worse as each minute rolls by.  If I make it, will I be able to get in and out safely or will I be cornered and put on the spot.  Who will stare at the strange stay-at-home dad (A bad thing in the culture of our church) and wonder what's wrong with him.  The same ones who said, "Oh, it’s great what you're doing with your kids staying home" but ignoring me and my boys for play dates unless my wife called them to arrange it.  Ignoring me in the PTA when I signed up for committees and only calling me when the trucks for the fundraisers needed to be unloaded or the book fair needed to be set up.  Making me just a donkey.  Fighting to finally let me help with the book fair itself.  Many of those people are in this ward.  You can see it in their eyes when they see me.  Then there are the ones who are nicer but only want that on the surface small talk.  That's OK if they want to just wave or say “Hi” but they extend it into a conversation about nothing that makes me feel like I'm lighting myself on fire.  And since the ward leader says I'm needed so badly what he's really asking is for me to light myself on fire to keep the rest of the congregation warm.  Maybe, when they ask how I'm doing, I should tell them.  "I'm completely stressed out, there are too many people here.  It feels like being trapped in a room full of bees and I’m one mistake away from them swarming me and stinging me to death."  And then watch as they suddenly become uncomfortable having to listen to my struggles.  But that's not right.  That's impolite to ruin their day.  Or the worse thing is for me to finally be pushed too far and instead of retreating in "flight" mode I become angry and berate someone in front of everyone, losing all control and ruining the spirit of reverence that should be at church.

 

I can't let that happen. I can't destroy the atmosphere with my broken mind.  So, we'll see.  Maybe in the hour or two left I'll finally sleep and gain enough strength to make it.  Because despite all of this, I still have faith in the gospel.  I still believe in Jesus Christ and his sacrifice for us.  I want to take the sacrament.  I want to hear the words over the pulpit.  I just need to do it as unnoticed as possible.