Priesthood, Agency, and the Fallible Mortal

I, like so many women who have been affected by a loved one's sex addiction, have had both good and bad experiences with the men called of God to counsel with me in times of crisis.

The good: I will forever be grateful to Bishop Brown, who 13 years ago refused to grant my husband a temple recommend. J spent months pressuring and pleading, hoping to attend his brother's upcoming wedding without anyone being the wiser, but the Bishop held firm. J was forced to confess the reason for his unworthiness to me; something he'd had no intention of doing-- ever. 

During our first separation, J and I had an amazing Bishop that was incredibly versed in addiction. The first thing he said to me when we met together was, "J is going to feel elated in the next few weeks, but you are going to feel worse. Addiction is like sitting in a pile of manure. As he confesses his actions to you, he'll start shoveling himself out of the crap-- but he'll be tossing all of it on to you instead. He might be indignant that you aren't pleased with his progress-- but how can you be? You're sitting in a big pile of manure that he dumped on you. Be gentle with yourself. If he's really going to change, he'll have to learn to be patient and empathetic to the pain he's putting you through."

That Bishop sent us to an excellent therapist and introduced J to the ARP and the SA programs. He told me, "Any man that claims to have repented but has never completed Steps 4 and 5 are lying to themselves."

I know that no man, even a Bishop, can make an addict change, but I still give Bishop C a lot of credit and gratitude for his inspired guidance, firmness, and encouragement.

Unfortunately, I also carry the pain of thoughtless remarks and bad advice from other Bishops, including my current one. 

Watching J not be held accountable for his actions by men who have the authority and obligation to do so was and is incredibly deflating. It always invalidated my pain and left me questioning my leaders' worthiness. It did J a disservice, as suddenly he felt reinforced in his position that his addiction was "a normal guy thing" and that the mere fact that he was even acknowledging it, let alone trying to do anything about it meant that he was far superior to other men. 

After his last relaps, J adopted an attitude that said I should be lauding his nobility. I should be grateful, not traumatized. He grew increasingly confident and complacent.  He'd discovered the problem in our marriage, and the problem was me. 

I went to our current Bishop several times, asking why, if J was still active in his addiction, in his lying, and in his denial-- why was he being told to go to the temple more? Why wasn't he being disciplined? 

I was told that he would only be able to stop filling his soul with darkness if he was given a chance to fill it with light instead. 

I stared, dumbfounded. 

"So, let me get this straight. If he were trying to stop smoking, would he also be permitted to enter the temple unworthily so that he could "fill himself with light" and gain enough strength to become worthy? 

"What if he were shooting up heroin? What if he'd been drug free for 6 months, but then relapsed and had been lying about it for the last 6 weeks? Does he still get to enter the temple in order to quit? 

"What if instead of bringing these vile images into the home he shared with his wife and children, he'd simply hired actors to enter our house so he could be a voyeur and pleasure himself to their performance? Is that worse? Is it more shocking? Does it sound more unseemly? Because it shouldn't. It's the same thing. 

"How," I asked, "is his behavior any different than that? It's still breaking covenants of chastity."

The bishop looked at me pityingly and said, "I know this feels like an affair to you..."

Not feels like.  IS.  It is an affair.  

And yet there I was, being told that I was overreacting. That if I felt it unjust that J be allowed to enter the temple, I was bitter and unforgiving. That the problem in our marriage was me.

I am not the only one who has been a victim of her husband's infidelity. I'm not the only one who has had the pain of betrayal compounded by priesthood men who have failed them. I am not the only one who has had to reconcile a deep and abiding belief in the Savior and his restored Gospel with the imperfect and damaging way His fallible human leaders have conducted themselves. And since I am not the only one, I want to share the beliefs that have sustained me over the last few months:

I believe that God does not set us up for failure. When he calls someone to be a Bishop, it means that they have the capability, choice and every possibility to serve well and honorably. 

However, God also will not thwart agency. Even if there is an equally strong possibility that that man will accept a calling unworthily, serve poorly, or cause heartache, God will not deny him the opportunity to succeed simply because he might fail. It is the only way a man can be judged justly. If he is to be accountable for failing as a Bishop (or as a husband or as a father), it stands to reason that he must first be given an opportunity to BE a Bishop (or a husband or a father.) 

I believe that I can sustain my Bishop and also follow my own promptings and inspiration. I believe I have a right and a duty to give my Bishop the opportunity to serve and counsel, but I have just as much a right and duty to disregard teachings that are not in line with what I know to be true. I believe that voicing my concerns to the Stake President or the First Presidency makes me a truth teller, not unfaithful. I believe that no matter what my Bishop says or does, he does not have the power to shake my testimony in the Lord's church. 

Likewise, I believe that when J and I married, he had just as strong a chance of becoming an honest, noble man as he did of being a selfish, dishonest one. I believe that that is why I was given spiritual confirmation of my choice to marry him. I don't think I was given the prompting to leave until J had used his agency to cut off completely the possibility of us having a celestial marriage. 

I think that is why I wasn't ever told to leave sooner. Up until now, we had a chance. J had an opportunity to succeed. He didn't choose that, and now he will be judged fairly for abusing and failing his wife and children. He could never have been held accountable for actions he might have committed toward us if we'd left before he could commit them, so part of our suffering was to satisfy justice.

But I also believe in mercy. 

I believe that Heavenly Father consecrates every painful thing we experience in mortality and allows it to change us for the better. 

My marriage was hard. 

Divorce has been hard. 

The ignorant and willfull failings of my priesthood leaders have been hard. 

But each of these hard things have been crossroads; opportunities to either become inured by the perceived injustice or meekly submit to His will and figure out what I'm being given the chance to learn. 

Mara of A Blog About Love calls this aligning with the divine and pursuing virtues.

Victor Frankl calls it finding meaning in suffering.

My mom calls it planting a garden in a concentration camp.

C.S. Lewis calls it being broken down and built up.

And I call it beautiful.


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Togetherness Project

All else will either fall into place or drop out of your life. 

The phrase echoed and replayed in my mind endlessly as I located the envelope containing my patriarchal blessing among the journals and sketchbooks in my bedside table, then sat to re-read the words I'd been given when I was only 14 years old. 

I was searching for the familiar, repeating phrase when my eyes lit apon a different passage. In it, I was advised to carefully consider, ponder, and pray over the decision of who I would marry. He should be ready and willing to take me to the temple, and together we would teach and raise our children in light and truth. 

Reading those words, I felt my stomach lurch. My mind was flooded with images and impressions of what was being described. A union full of hope and refuge; a marriage united in bringing our children up in strength and testimony; a home filled with respect and safety. Those words did not describe my marriage. Those words did not describe my husband. 

I sat, reeling. 

Where had i gone wrong? Hadn't I fasted and prayed over my decision to marry J? Hadn't I had strong, spiritual confirmation of my choice? Hadn't I turned to God after J's first disclosure? Hadn't I asked then if the marriage was a mistake? Hadn't I turned to Him every step of the way since? Hadn't I felt prompted to stay? Hadn't I been compelled to give up the dream of a loving, fulfilling marriage? 

I had. 

I had done all those things simply because it felt right, and now I was being confronted with a promise that I knew had not been fulfilled, and showed no signs of ever being fulfilled.  

I'd had to let go of a deeply held, tender dream! I'd only survived the last 15 years by convincing myself that the image I'd had of marriage was a fairy tail. Unrealistic and entirely unattainable in this life. But here it was, painfully in front of my face. Promised but still out of reach. 

I felt bereft, angry and trapped.

During the entire 9 hour drive to Utah the next morning, I cried, prayed, yelled, and cried some more. 

What do I do now? Is there no coming back from this?

Please don't tell me I have to keep doing this! Please don't make me live this pain indefinitely! 

What about my kids? How is it fair that pursuing my safety ruins their lives?

But I can't keep going! I have nothing left! 

What more can I do? How can this possibly end well?

Please God, what about my kids? 

At my arrival, I collapsed on the hotel bed, my eyes red and puffy, and slept the deep sleep of the emotionally spent. 

At daybreak, my parents joined me from Idaho. I clung to them like a river-swept woman clinging to a rock. I felt shattered and unmoored. 

Together, my mom and I sat through hours of classes and presentations, each dense with information, validation, and support. Though much of it wasn't anything I hadn't already heard, I took copious notes, desperate to divine any hint of direction on where to go or what to do. There had to be a magic formula. A miracle. A third option. 

My memories of the conference play like a highlight reel. 

I remember listening to Rhyll Croshaw describe what her relationship with her husband-in-recovery looks like now. The triggers. The still-present shame. Enforcing boundaries. Him occasionally sleeping in a separate room. 

I remember it sounded hard.

I remember a presenter talking about surviving a horrific divorce and what her second marriage looks like. Introducing a bachelor to parenting. Juggling culture clashes (he's German) and the difficulty of blending two strong personalities.  "The grass isn't greener on the other side," she said, "it's orange. But even though he's not perfect, he's perfectly transparent."

I remember that remarriage sounded hard as well.

I remember a woman behind me asking how to stop having feelings of love, attraction and hurt every time she saw the husband who left her for another woman. 

I remember realizing that I didn't have that problem. It had been years since I'd felt anything but dread and trepidation at the thought of J walking through the door.

I remember A Wife Redeemed saying that she stays in her marriage despite how antagonistic and unsupportive her husband is about her sharing her story, "because all the rest of the time, he's my best friend."

I remember thinking that I have not been able to say the same of J for almost a decade. 

I remember stepping in to the massive ballroom full of vibrant, faithful, beautiful women and realizing each and every one of them carried the pain of betrayal. That for each shining face I saw, there was a husband, boyfriend, brother or father that was breaking covenants and destroying lives. 

I remember having to remind myself not to hate all men. 

Most of all, I remember my mind, body and soul aching with the weight of the decisions I had before me. I felt drained and just as lost as I'd been from the start. I knew what I wanted, but it felt impossible to choose without the Lord's explicit approval.

That night, I asked my dad to give me a blessing of comfort and guidance. As he laid his hands on my head, I shook with anxiety and barely repressed tears. But in moments, I felt peace flow through me from my scalp to my toes. 

You are becoming certain, I was told, and you will be even more so as you examin the last 15 years in its entirety. 

Do not worry about your children. 

There is much happiness ahead. 

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No Good Options

Over the last decade or so of hellish trials, I've come to be very upfront with God. He can take it, and somehow allowing myself the luxury of unfiltered words and thoughts helps me to feel more open to moving past them when He asks that of me. 

The night before I was to leave for The Togetherness Project in Midvale, Utah, I sat in the temple and prayed. 

J's nowhere near entering real recovery, I told God. And I know I don't have the reserves to go through this any longer. 

I need an increased capacity for pain if I'm to continue with this marriage. 

I pictured us separated for years, struggling just to approach a level of trust and safety that would allow us to start having a genuine relationship again. The enormity of that journey left me feeling daunted and discouraged. 

But I know what recovery looks like, I told God, thinking of the 6 Behaviors I had listed. I'll know real recovery when I see it. 

And then it hit me. 

I did know what real recovery looked like.

It looked like a man laying in bed with his frightened, weeping wife; taking her in his arms, looking her in the eye, and saying "I have been prompted by the spirit to tell you that there is nothing going on...."

I felt a chill run through me as my stomach became lead. Yes, I'd seen what recover looked like, and it had all been a lie. 

God, I don't know how to come back from that! I said, despairing. 

I will never be able to trust him again! I will never be able to feel safe with him again! 

Am I wrong? 

I began to weep, overcome. I felt trapped between two hopeless-sounding scenarios. 

In one, I stayed with a man whom I would never be able to be vulnerable with. I would have to shore up my heart and drop any remaining expectation I had of what a marriage actually was. Our lives would be like our trip to Europe-- traveling our own paths to our own destinations in our own ways. Married in name only. 

In the other, I divorced. I would have the comfort of unequivocal boundaries. J would no longer hold claim over me or my body. But our children, who up to this point remained relatively unscathed by our dismal union, would be plunged headfirst into the stormy seas of change. I agonized that I would be sacrificing their security for my own. 

Is there a third option? I pleaded, Is there a miracle waiting around the corner that could somehow heal all of this? 

In reply, I felt peace settle over my shoulders and the words, "Follow the Lord and all else will either fall into place or drop out of your life" whispered in my heart. I recognized the phrase from my patriarchal blessing, and resolved to read it again. 

I sniffed, dried my tears and went home to pack. 

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Same Old

J's pain was both short lived and fruitless. 

He came to me one afternoon and announced that he'd discovered he was co-dependent. "I've been spending all this time trying to make you happy," he explained, "thinking that it would make me happy. I should be focusing more on myself."

My figurative jaw dropped. This has been you trying to make me happy? I thought, my inner sarcasm kicking in. Well that was an epic fail! And, I added, incredulous, if you focus any more on yourself, you'll drown in your own reflection. 

Though I could see elements of truth in his words--that he did expect me to make him happy, and had never learned to accept responsibility for his own feelings-- I could also see that that wasn't at all what he meant. His words were correct on the surface, but his attitude was one of glee over finding a plausible excuse to act more selfishly. I braced myself for the entitlement that was sure to follow. 

I didn't have to wait long. 

For the next few days, he made efforts to insert himself into my life. Under the guise of helpfulness, he asked to come to Family Home Evening. I turned him down. 

Next, he made a show of taking the children to the new Temple open house. He acted hurt when I refused to join him. 

Finally, he came to pick up our daughter for a concert, then dangled the tickets in front of my face. "Last chance," he coaxed. 

I gave him a dirty look and took him aside. 

"Why are you always so pissed at me?" He whined when we were alone. "Is it really so insulting that I want to spend time with you?"

"Of course you want to spend time with me!" I countered. "I'm awesome! But you're too arrogant to consider the fact that I don't want to spend time with you."

His face grew stony. 

"What has changed," I challenged him, "that you think you're even worthy to ask that of me?"

"Worthy?" He repeated woodenly. 

"I told you," I continued, "I'm not willing to take a single step toward you unless you prove that you're safe, and you haven't done anything to show me that."

"Yes I--" he protested, but I interrupted, 

"Don't give me that crap about how long you've been sober. I don't believe a word of it anyway. You have a list of 6 behaviors, so you know exactly what I need to see in order to trust you, and nowhere on that list does it say, 'chocolates, flowers, time together, white-knuckle sobriety and a massive dose of denial'. Shoving those things in my face in place of actual recovery is insulting. So yes, I'm pissed."

I'm sure J argued in response. I'm sure he became defensive, looked wounded and called me mean and unreasonable, the same way he had in Europe and during every other iteration of this fight that we'd had over the years. But I no longer registered any of it. His words had become meaningless long ago, and my efforts to get him to acknowledge reality and act accordingly were predictably futile. 

I read once that people tell you who they are through their actions, and your challenge lies in whether you accept what they show you. 

J's actions were speaking loud and clear, but it wasn't until what came next that I finally started to believe it. 

Endless Thought Cycle

J's moodiness lasted several days following our return from Europe, and though I cautioned myself against it, I became vaguely optimistic. 

Maybe this is rock bottom, I thought. Maybe this is the beginning of the end. 

In my minds eye, I attempted to see J being led through the emotional labyrinth that started with remorse and humility and ended with love and recovery. How wonderful to step to the very brink of disaster, only to recognize it for what it was and allow yourself to be snatched to safety! Perhaps this is what God had been orchestrating all along! 

But even as I tried to envision us strong and united, hope was crushed under the terrible weight of just how far J would have to go and how long it would take to get there. I knew it wasn't impossible-- with God, nothing is-- but I'd experienced the agony of that journey twice. Those journeys had been refining. They had brought me strength and growth unlike I'd ever before known, but apparently they hadn't had the same- or perhaps any-  effect on J. 

I could not comprehend how that was even possible. He was either extraordinarily dense or willfully rejecting everything we'd been taught, neither of which made me eager to go through hell a third time with only the smallest flicker of hope in his capacity and desire to change sustaining me. 

Here I was, still waiting around for him to reach rock bottom? Waiting for him to wake up and decide that addiction was not serving him? Waiting for him to finally start this journey of a thousand steps?

Thinking about it that way always circled me back to the same conclusions:

That I was outgrowing him. 

That I was done with this stage of growth.

That I was ready for the next hard thing. 

That at this point, even if J were sprinting towards recovery, I was not certain I could wait around for him to catch up. 

That J was nowhere near sprinting.

I worried that God would ask me to stay anyway. That He needed me to learn something more that I wasn't yet seeing. While I would do anything He asked of me, in my heart of hearts, I felt certain that the possibility of having a loving, respectful, and equally yoked marriage with J was gone. If God wanted me to stay, it would be for another purpose entirely, and that made me feel sad, afraid, and so, so tired. 

As it turned out, I needn't have worried.  

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Outgrowing

It was somewhere in Oxford that it happened. 

It was overcast and windy, giving me a perfect excuse to wear riding boots and a heavy scarf as I walked through scattered leaves. I'd spent the morning taking in the Great Hall at Christchurch, sitting in the library where they filmed Harry Potter, and exploring gardens and university buildings that had been the stomping grounds of Lewis Carrol and JRR Tolkein. 

Now I sat on a weathered pew sipping tea in what had once been an Abby, but was now a whitewashed bakery overlooking a courtyard. I read my book intermittently, pausing to take in the scenery or listen in as the older woman at the next table over described her house hunting adventures of the previous afternoon. 

And then he walked by. 

Someone-- just the briefest flash of a profile. A sure walk; a smart silhouette. Nothing I'd be able to recall later or describe in any detail. I didn't even see his face-- but my stomach leapt and my heart picked up its pace. 

I looked away quickly, flushed and ashamed. I'd noticed someone. For the first time in more than fifteen years, I'd let someone who wasn't my husband catch my eye. 

I felt sick. 

I knew I was hurt. I knew I was detached. I knew I was contemplating divorce. But was I, on some level, allowing myself to feel single? The thought both appalled and frightened me. If J and I did get divorced, I did not want there to be even a hint of "someone better" on the horizon of my mind. I would never be able to trust or respect my own decisions if that were the case. 

Mentally, I berated myself for my lapse. But in the very next breath, I was horrified to realize that I had had to be on the very precipice of divorce before I'd even allowed myself to notice a man. J had been cataloging, lusting, fantasizing over, and comparing me to countless women from the very day we were married. 

What did that say about how attached-- or detached-- he was from me? If it made me sick just to get butterflies over glimpsing a man, how much would he have to cut off feelings of love, loyalty and morality just to allow himself to do the things that he did? 

Once again, I was left feeling bereft and confused. The question was not whether my husband loved me-- I knew he didn't-- but whether I truly could live in a loveless marriage. 

For a decade, I believed it was possible. I believed that the key to marriage was to cease expecting any fulfillment from it; to find joy despite J's callousness; to love him for the sake of loving. I believed in potential. I believed in looking for the good. I believed that life was supposed to be hard, and that a marriage was just a tool for learning and growth. I believed that love was an ability that could be taught. 

But sitting at that pew, warming my hands around my cup of chai, I wondered if it really was possible that a marriage required the efforts of both parties; that I could put forth my best effort and still fail; that staying might actually be more masochism than it was worth. 

In the deepest recesses of my mind, I told Heavenly Father, I know I can do hard things. 

I'm just ready to do a different hard thing. 

I don't know what more I can gain here. 

I think I've outgrown my marriage. 

And then I waited, terrified at what He might answer. 

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The Rundown, Part 18

I am not afraid of solitude. Traveling accross Europe solo just confirmed to me that I enjoy my own company and have the capacity to be happy regardless of J or his actions. 

That was not always the case. 

When J and I got married, I felt as if I had been on hold up until that point and only then could I finally begin living. 

On our honeymoon, we wrote a list together of things we wanted to do and places we wanted to go-- a bucket list of sorts. I remember finding it again a few years after J's first disclosure and being shocked at how little of myself was contained in that list. I don't want to skydive. I thought. I don't want to learn to ski. But at the time, I'd just wanted to go wherever he went and do whatever he did. I'd lost myself in him. 

J's first disclosure changed all that. In the years following, I'd made a conscious decision to live in such a way that I wouldn't need him for anything. I'd stopped looking for his love or validation to fill my emotional holes. I'd pursued my own interests and cultivated my own talents and developed a relationship with Heavenly Father that enabled me to receive strength, comfort and inspiration independent of my husband. 

Our starkly differing experiences in Europe seemed to highlight how far I'd come. 

In Sweden and Denmark, I walked cobblestone streets, read books in quiet cafes, explored art museums and shopped for simple, modern design goods. I went running in lush parks, biked around Nyhaven and sat in grand cathedrals for Evensong. I navigated on my own, spent hours in absolute silence or made a game of trying to go an entire day without speaking English. It was liberating and empowering and centering all at once. I was pleased to find that despite everything, I felt whole and happy, all on my own. 

Meanwhile, on Instagram, J was posting photos of his travels in Ireland. I'd look at him standing by the Cliffs of Mohr or eating in a pub and think, "I am so glad I'm not there!" I'd wondered if I would have any regrets; instead I felt an exhilarating freedom to see what I'd narrowly escaped; to look around at how purely "me" my trip really was. 

I basked in it. For two weeks, I didn't have to cook, clean, talk, sacrifice or compromise. I simply walked wherever I wanted to walk, ate whatever tasted  good, looked at whatever struck me as beautiful and pondered whatever I found intriguing. It was healing and meditative and revealed to me how easy it was for me to actually enjoy myself once I was unencumbered by J and the psychological weight of his manipulations and betrayals. 

By the end of my trip, I felt absolutely filled to the brim with life and beauty. I dreaded seeing J again, aware of how blatantly impenitent he was, and steeled myself for the long flight home. 

Once I was settled in to the seat next to him, I cautioned myself not to open up-- but I could hardly contain how happy I was! It spilled out all over the place. I cheerfully chatted with the woman next to me and ended up enthusing to J about the sights and experiences. As I waxed poetic, I could see him sinking deeper and deeper in to self pity. I turned on a movie to get myself to shut up. 

"I'm not well" J told me. "I was miserable for the entire trip. I wish you were there. It was torture watching others with their spouses and knowing I was all alone." He pulled his hat down over his face and cried. He asked to hold my hand. For a while, I felt sorry for him and obliged, then instantly felt uncomfortable with it and let go. It did not feel like he was crying out of godlike remorse or genuine sorrow for where his actions had led. Instead, he cried because I was happy and he wasn't, and it didn't seem fair to him. 

As I watched a coming-of-age film on the tiny TV embedded into the seat in front of me. J continued to interrupt, fishing for small nuggets of conversation. J had always loved coming-of-age films. For years, he'd been drawn to the awkward underdog. The misunderstood, socially awkward boy who only needs a woman's love in order to 'find' himself. He'd started countless scripts, attempting to encapsulate these feelings into a single character, but always ended up lost in the second act. He never knew how to end the story; how to get his guy to grow up. 

As I mulled this over, I was struck with the thought that J can't finish his coming of age story because he's never come of age. He can't verbalized something he doesn't know or understand, and he's never learned that you can't expect a person or event to make you happy. Being an adult means taking responsibility for your own actions and feelings, but J was still expecting me to "fix" him. 

For a moment, I couldn't help but look at him and think, "You never grew up. I am married to a thirteen year old boy."

And with that, I felt alone for the first time in two weeks. 

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