Cover image via Gospel Media Library. 

When my daughter, Amber, was struggling with her bipolar disease at the age of 17, we went through a series of suicide attempts, even when she was admitted to a mental institution where she was watched around the clock.  She was at this institution for ten weeks, during which time she had probably four different suicide attempts.  After each one, hope seemed to return more slowly to me.  I found myself struggling to believe that there could be a cure for her.

Ater her fourth suicide attempt, I felt true helplessness.  Our family had been praying every day.  I personally had prayed multiple times every day for Amber to be healed.  John and I fasted together every Sunday.

Amber was working daily with a team of psychiatrists and psychologists.  She was having daily individual, as well as group therapy sessions.  Yet, instead of improving, she seemed to be sinking further and further into despair.  I found myself sinking with her, despite my efforts to seek the Lord and His healing in prayer.

After receiving a call from the hospital informing me of Amber’s latest attempt to kill herself, I found myself lying on the couch, feeling the darkness of true hopelessness.  I thought I should try to get up and do something positive.  But my energy to move seemed sapped.  I sank back into the couch, feeling defeated.

The phone rang, it was my Visiting Teaching companion, reminding me that we had an appointment to visit one of our sisters that morning.  My companion regretfully informed me that she would not be able to join me for the appointment, as she had to take her elderly mother to the doctor.  I was so tempted to call Sis. Jones and cancel the appointment.  I started to dial her number.

But then, the thought hit me that perhaps I needed Sis. Jones far more than she needed me.  She was unlike anyone I had known before.  She radiated peace.  She radiated love.  I selfishly thought, “Perhaps some of her peace will rub off on me.  Heaven knows I could use some peace!” So, I reluctantly got to my feet, managed to run a comb through my hair, threw on some lipstick and headed out the door.

When I got to Sis. Jones’ house, I could feel the peace before she even answered the door.  It only took one look at my face for her to cry out, “Becky, are you okay?  You look like you’ve just lost your best friend.”  I told her about the call from the hospital and how it had shattered my hope.  I was struggling not to cry.

Sis. Jones wrapped her arms around me. I asked her how in the world she managed to live with such peace when lives could be full of so much pain.  “Were you just born with that sense of peace?” I asked her.

Sis. Jones didn’t answer for at least a full minute, as if she were weighing whether or not to share her story with me.  Finally she said, “Oh no, my friend.  My childhood was hell.”  This startled me, it was probably the last thing I expected. “Then how are you so full of peace today?” I begged her.

She invited me to sit on her couch.  She sat in an armchair opposite me and began her story.  She told me that as early as she can remember, her father was cruel.  She confessed that he had abused her in every form imaginable: physically, emotionally, and sexually.  She said, she lived in constant fear.  She also felt debilitating shame as he convinced her that she was unworthy of any good thing.  She was a bad child and had brought these things upon herself.  She was a wretched child.

This cruel man threatened her that if she ever told anyone about her life, he would not only kill her, but he would kill her mother, as well. So she lived in solitude, never having a friend—because she feared someone might find out how worthless she really was.

Her mother seemed aloof.  She thought several times about appealing to her mother for help, but her father’s threatening words kept her silent.  What if she became the cause of her mother’s death?  Such a thought was unthinkable.  She thought of running away, but again, what if her father struck at her mother?  So, she suffered alone, hating her father and hating herself.

She said that when she was sixteen, she finally could take the fear and the abuse no longer.  She ran away from home and never looked back.  She had some rough experiences, but she felt that nothing could be as bad as what she had come from.

Shortly after leaving home, she met the missionaries.  The discussions were like a salve to her wounds.  The idea of a loving Heavenly Father was healing to her wounded soul.  She got baptized and found her family within the members of her ward.

She eventually met the man who would become her husband.  He was loving and caring.  She had two children that she adored, but she was constantly afraid for them and their safety.  Then, when she felt like she was finally rebuilding her life, she was contacted by her mother, who had found her.  Her mother asked for her forgiveness.  She informed her that her father had died.  She confessed that she had been aware of her daughter’s abuse all those years, but because of her fear of the father and his violence, she had pretended to not know and had looked the other way.

To my friend, this was the ultimate betrayal.  It swept her back into the darkness of her childhood.  She entered a depression that seemed to have no bottom. She said she tried to forgive both of her parents, but every time she thought she had finally forgiven them, something would spur a reaction and she would find herself back in the power of their abuse.

She told me she struggled for years.  She prayed and prayed.  But the nightmares and dark remembrances haunted her.  She began to despair of ever overcoming this in her life.

She continued, “One night I was in so much pain and feeling so hopeless that I begged God to take my life and give me some rest.  I was sitting in this chair that I’m sitting in today.  I was desperate.  I didn’t feel that I could relive those memories one more day.  I wept and wept.  I eventually fell asleep in this chair.”

Then her face seemed to change completely.  She said, “The next thing I knew, I realized that I was in the Garden of Gethsemane.  I could see Jesus on His knees with his face to the ground.  He was suffering horribly.  As I watched I could see that he was seeing all the sins of the world, as they were acted out, one by one, almost as if He were watching holograms.  I saw myself being abused and I saw Him watching it.  I saw His tears and felt His anguish.  I saw the drops of blood glistening on His skin.  I wanted to run and help Him, but I couldn’t move.

“Then He turned and looked at me.  I felt His pain and His love all at the same time.  I felt my own pain literally leave me. For the first time in my life, I felt that someone else truly knew and felt my pain and anguish.  I felt fresh and clean.

“Then He turned away.  Next, I watched Him watch my father being abused horribly as a child.  I felt His pain again and saw His love for my father.  I saw Him weeping for my father.  It was overwhelming.  He was weeping for my cruel father!  I found myself also weeping for my father.  Again, He turned and looked at me with indescribable love.  I felt cleansed by that love.  My fear and hatred of my father was gone.”

Sis. Jones continued, “When I woke up, the pain was gone.  I felt awash in the love of the Savior.  I felt indescribable peace.  That peace has never left me.”

As Sis. Jones finished; I knew that I had just been a part of a sacred experience.  Surely the Lord knew my anguish, too.  Surely, He knew Amber’s pain.  Surely there would come healing for us, as well.  Maybe not in this life, but there would be healing through the grace and love of our Savior.

Every Easter I remember this sacred Visiting Teaching visit.  What a gift Sister Jones gave me that day when I was feeling so hopeless.  Even though it wasn’t given to me, that vision has given me renewed hope untold times in my life.  What a precious gift Easter is!

Our Savior suffered for me, as well.  There is someone who knows the depth of my sorrows.  When the sacrament is blessed and I hear the words, “in the remembrance of the blood of thy Son, which was shed for them . . . “ I remember that that precious blood was shed for me, as well.  What a glorious healing gift our Lord has given us.  Truly, “earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.”